FROM   THE   LIBRARY  OF 


REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 


BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


,y"« 


^ 


i 


im^/AJ^u^7  L 


POEMS 


WILLIAM   H.    BTJBLEIGH. 


A  SKETCH  OF  HIS  LIFE. 


CELIA  BUELEIGH. 


NEW     YORK: 
PUBLISHED   BY   HURD   AND   HOUGHTON. 

Cambridge :  BtbersfDe  $ress. 
1871. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

Celia  Burleigh, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


RIVERSIDE,     CAMBRIDGE: 
PRINTED  BY  H.   0.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


THE    MEMORY 


LYDIA  BRADFORD   BURLEIGH, 

WHOSE   FITTEST  MONUMENT   IS   THE  PURE  AND   NOBLE   LIVES   OF 

HER   CHILDREN,   THIS   RECORD   OF   A   LIFE   WHICH 

SHE   HELPED   TO   FORM 

IS  REVERENTLY  DEDICATED. 


PKEFACE. 


WILLIAM    HENRY   BURLEIGH. 

As  the  soul  is  greater  than  all  its  experiences, 
and  a  life  is  more  than  any  of  its  incidents,  we 
can  never  hope  to  find  a  whole  character  in  any- 
thing less  than  a  whole  life-experience.  Even  that 
does  not  quite  tell  the  story  ;  for  back  of  the  fail- 
ures and  the  successes,  the  aspirations  and  achieve- 
ments, the  joys  and  the  sorrows  that  befell  the  man, 
is  the  greater  fact  of  the  man  himself. 

Should  the  reader  of  the  fugitive  pieces  collected 
in  this  volume  expect  to  find  in  them  a  full-length 
portrait  of  their  author,  he  will  be  disappointed. 
They  are  only  ripples  on  the  surface  of  a  strong, 
deep  life :  such  a  record  as  the  laborer,  strolling 
homeward  through  summer  woods  after  his  day's 
toil,  might  take  to  those  who  waited  his  coming  — 
a  wreath  of  evergreens  hastily  twisted,  a  handful 
of  wild  flowers,  a  bunch  of  leaves :  the  record  of 
his  leisure  hours  rather  than  of   his  work.     But,  in 


VI  PREFACE. 

estimating  a  character,  the  testimony  of  the  leisure 
hours  may  be  as  important  as  that  of  the  laborious 
ones;  the  ripple  of  unguarded  talk,  the  rhyme  that 
sung  itself  in  an  idle  half  hour,  the  spontaneous 
utterances  welling  up  from  the  heart,  speak  as 
clearly  of  the  man's  disposition  as  does  the  round 
of  daily  duties  lived  in  the  face  of  the  world. 

Those  who  knew  William  H.  Burleigh  need  not 
be  told  that  from  boyhood  till  stricken  by  the  dis- 
ease of  which  he  died  he  was  an  earnest,  conscien- 
tious, and  faithful  worker.  Those  who  knew  him 
most  intimately,  best  know  his  devotion  to  principle, 
his  unswerving  fidelity,  his  inexhaustible  patience, 
his  true  heroism.  I  do  not  purpose  writing  the 
history  of  his  life  ;  its  most  pathetic  pages  are  not 
for  the  public  eye,  but  are  treasured  reverently  in 
loving  hearts.  Its  best  record  is  in  the  triumph  of 
the  principles  which  were  the  inspiration  of  both 
his  public  and  private  life.  His  proudest  boast  was 
to  have  been  associated  with  the  noble  men  and 
women  who  constituted  the  vanguard  of  progress. 
The  advancement  of  humanity  was  more  to  him 
than  any  mere  personal  success,  and  in  all  times  of 
trial  and  discouragement  he  sustained  himself  with 
the  conviction,  that  a  life  devoted  to  unselfish  ends 
is  in  harmony  with  God's  order,  and  cannot  fail. 
His  history  is  the  history  of  abolitionism,  of  temper- 
ance, of  human  progress.     Written  in  characters  that 


PREFACE.  Vll 

cannot  die,  it  will  exert  an  influence  for  good  long 
after  he  and  his  co-workers  have  passed  away.  We 
may  leave  his  work  to  speak  for  itself,  while  we 
linger  lovingly  with  the  worker,  striving  to  catch 
such  an  outline  of  the  genial  face,  such  touches  of 
character  as  shall  keep  his  memory  green  in  the 
hearts  of  his  friends,  and,  possibly,  commend  to 
some  who  never  knew  him  a  life  so  pure  and  un- 
selfish. 

On  the  mother's  side  he  was  a  lineal  descendant 
of  William  Bradford,  the  pilgrim  father  so  distin- 
guished among  the  heroes  of  the  Mayflower,  and 
so  long  Governor  of  Plymouth  Colony.  His  father, 
Rinaldo  Burleigh,  was  a  graduate  of  Yale  College, 
having  studied  under  Dr.  Dwight,  and  was  one  of 
the  most  successful  of  classical  teachers,  till  partial 
blindness  drove  him  from  his  books  back  to  his 
farm  in  Plainfield,  Conn.  It  was  while  teaching  in 
Woodstock,  in  that  State,  that  his  fourth  son,  Wil- 
liam Henry,  was  born  on  the  2d  of  February, 
1812,  in  the  same  year  and  month  as  Charles 
Dickens,  with  whom  he  enjoyed  a  short  but  pleas- 
ant intimacy  during  the  stay  of  the  distinguished 
novelist  in  this  country. 

He  is  described  as  having  been  in  boyhood  truth- 
loving,  conscientious,  and  affectionate  :  slow  to  resent 
affronts  put  upon  himself,  but  firing  up  with  an 
indignation    that  swept  all    before  it,  if  helplessness, 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

or  misfortune,  or  old  age  were  made  the  subject  of 
a  heartless  jest.  Shy,  sensitive,  tender,  keenly  alive 
to  the  beauty  of  Nature,  with  a  quick  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  and  a  great  loving  heart  that  yearned  for 
a  more  demonstrative  affection  than  flourished  in 
the  New  England  homes  of  half  a  century  ago, 
the  imperfectly  understood  boy  worked  on  the  farm, 
went  to  the  district  school,  and,  almost  as  soon  as 
he  knew  how  to  write,  beguiled  his  leisure  with 
verse-making.  Brimming  over  with  fun,  living  the 
jolliest  boy-life  with  his  five  brothers  on  the  old 
farm  at  Plainfield,  notwithstanding  the  hard  work 
that  came  to  them  all,  he  was  still  a  good  deal 
of  a  dreamer  and  poet. 

Lying  half  dressed  one  day  on  the  bank  of  the 
stream  where  he  had  been  bathing,  the  wonderful 
beauty  of  the  summer  clouds  riveted  his  gaze,  and, 
unmindful  of  the  flight  of  time,  he  suddenly  found 
the  shades  of  evening  shutting  him  in.  Hurrying 
home,  he  was  greeted  by  his  mother  with  the  ex- 
clamation, "  Why,  William  !  where  have  you  been  so 
long,  and  what  has  become  of  your  jacket  ? "  To 
be  sure,  he  did  have  on  a  jacket  when  he  went  to 
bathe,  but  he  was  thinking  about  the  clouds,  and 
forgot  it.  The  picture  of  the  "  Barefoot  Boy,"  taken 
from  Whittier's  poem  of  that  name,  pleasantly  re- 
called this  incident  to  his  mind,  and  was  a  favorite 
with  him  on  account  of  it. 


PREFACE.  IX 

His  love  of  fun  was  inexhaustible,  and  finding 
expression  in  a  pair  of  the  merriest  eyes  that  ever 
twinkled  in  the  face  of  boyhood,  not  unfrequently 
involved  him  in  trouble.  The  memory  of  one 
school-master  to  whom  a  merry  eye  meant  total 
depravity,  went  with  him  through  life.  "  William 
Burleigh,  come  out  here  ! "  was  the  imperious  com- 
mand of  this  autocrat,  as  he  caught  sight  of  the 
boy's  beaming  face.  "  I  see  a  rogue  in  your  eye ; 
hold  out  your  hand ! "  The  brown  palm  was  ex- 
tended, and  received  three  or  four  smart  blows 
from  the  ferule.  "  Now  make  your  manners  and 
take  your  seat,"  said  the  petty  tyrant ;  and  the  boy, 
whose  only  offense  was  a  fun-loving  spirit,  went 
back  to  his  seat,  not  to  plan  revenge,  but  to  think, 
"  I  should  hate  to  be  as  cross  as  you  are.  What 
a  mean   time  you  must   have." 

To  a  boyhood  familiar  with  hard  work,  that 
knew  little  recreation  and  much  self-sacrifice,  suc- 
ceeded in  early  manhood  the  care  of  a  family,  and 
the  advocacy  of  unpopular  reforms.  To  a  nature 
like  his  there  was  no  po-sibility  of  compromising,  of 
choosing  a  discreet  middle  course  between  popularity 
and  principle.  Born  with  clear  moral  perceptions, 
he  could  not  help  seeing  what  truth  and  right  re- 
quired, an  1  seeing,  it  was  a  necessity  of  his  nature 
to  adjust  his  life  to  those  requirements.  And  yet 
to  few   men   would    it    have    been    so  distasteful    to 


X  PREFACE. 

oppose  the  strong  current  of  public  opinion  as  to 
him.  He  had  little  of  what  phrenologists  call  self- 
esteem,  placed  a  modest  estimate  upon  his  own 
powers,  loved  quiet  and  the  privacy  of  home,  and 
shrank  instinctively  from  notoriety  and  the  arena 
of  public  discussion.  Those  who  knew  him  as  a 
worker  in  the  anti-slavery  cause,  or  heard  his  elo- 
quent utterances  in  behalf  of  temperance,  had  little 
idea  of  the  cost  at  which  those  utterances  were 
made.  "  When  public  speaking,"  said  he,  "  first 
came  to  me  as  a  part  of  the  work  I  had  to  do,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  would  rather  die  than  under- 
take it ; "  and  long  after  he  had  learned  to  sway 
vast  crowds  by  his  eloquence,  he  never  rose  to 
speak  without  feeling  that  the  audience  must  hear 
his  heart  beat. 

Who  shall  tell  the  story  of  those  early  abolition- 
ists, and  enable  us  to  understand  what  it  cost  them 
to  be  true  to  their  convictions  ?  Who  will  portray 
the  lives  so  heroic  under  persecution,  the  hardships 
so  uncomplainingly  borne,  the  mobs  and  violence 
and  social  ostracism,  the  heartsickness  and  almost 
despair  that  must  have  come  to  them  again  and 
again  ? 

It  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  for  a  man  to  be  scorned, 
railed  at,  denounced  as  a  fanatic  and  disturber  of 
the  peace,  even  when  he  stands  alone ;  but  how 
much    harder  when  wife  and    children  are  involved, 


PREFACE.  Xt 

and  adherence  to  principle  means  poverty  and  pri- 
vation for  them.  To  a  man  like  Mr.  Burleigh  this 
was  the  trial  hardest  to  bear.  For  himself  it  did 
not  matter,  but  that  those  dearer  than  himself  should 
suffer  with  him,  pained  him  to  the  heart ;  and  to  shel- 
ter them  from  the  storms  to  which  he  unshrinkingly 
exposed  himself  was  the  thought  ever  present  to 
him,  the  one  care  whose  pressure  made  him  pre- 
maturely old.  To  a  man  with  a  rapidly  increasing, 
family,  whose  means  were  limited,  and  whose  life- 
long habit  it  was  to  assume  all  burdens  and  think 
of  himself  last,  life  could  not  fail  to  be  a  serious 
business,  even  had  it  lacked  the  odium  that  attached 
to  unpopular  reforms.  But  with  this  added,  the 
pressure  was  well-nigh  insupportable.  To  those 
who  knew  him  well  it  was  no  matter  of  surprise 
that  his  brown  locks  began  to  show  threads  of 
silver  at  thirty,  that  his  shoulders  were  prematurely 
bowed,  and  that  his  step  early  lost  something  of  its 
elasticity. 

In  1837  he  removed  to  Pittsburgh,  where  he  pub- 
lished the  "  Christian  Witness,"  and  afterwards  the 
"  Temperance  Banner."  In  this  city  and  Alleghany 
several  of  the  most  useful  years  of  his  life  were 
spent,  alternately  sending  forth  his  brave  utterances 
in  the  editorial  columns  of  his  paper,  and  lecturing 
before  anti-slavery,  temperance,  and  literary  associa- 
tions.    Here  were  formed  some  of    the  most  valued 


Xll  PREFA  CE. 

friendships  of  his  life,  among  them  that  with  Dr. 
Lemoyne  and  his  family  of  Washington,  Pa.,  which 
continued  uninterrupted  up  to  the  time  of  his  death, 
a  period  of  more  than  thirty  years.  The  last  visit 
that  he  ever  made  was  to  these  old  and  dear  friends. 

In  1843  he  was  invited  to  Hartford  by  the  ex- 
ecutive committee  of  the  Connecticut  Anti-Slavery 
Society  to  take  charge  of  its  organ,  then  known 
as  the  "  Christian  Freeman,"  but  soon  after  as  the 
"  Charter  Oak." 

In  a  tribute  to  Mr.  Burleigh,  published  since  his 
death,  in  the  Hartford  "Evening  Post,"  the  Hon. 
Francis  Gillette  thus  speaks  of  his  first  appearance 
in  Hartford :  "  He  had  at  this  time  just  attained 
the  fullness  and  strength  of  mature  manhood,  and 
in  all  the  physical  accomplishments  of  our  nature, 
compactness  and  dignity  of  form,  beauty  and  express- 
iveness of  face,  ease  and  simplicity  of  manners,  he 
had  but  few  equals  aud  no  superiors.  And  when 
to  these  remarkable  personal  attractions  was  super- 
added the  opulence  of  his  rare  intellectual  gifts,  his 
solid  understanding,  logical  acumen,  and  extensive 
knowledge,  irradiated  as  they  wrere  by  the  splendors 
of  a  rich  poetic  fancy  and  a  sparkling  wit,  the  im- 
pression first  made  by  the  remarkable  stranger  was 
one  which  time  can  never  efface.  Aud  it  is  not 
too  much  to  say  that  after  several  years  of  intimate 
association  with    him,  in  the    severe  toils    and  trials 


PREFACE.  xill 

of  the  anti-slavery  conflict,  that  impression  of  his 
glorious  manliness,  intellectual  ability,  and  generous 
aspirations,  was  deeper  than  ever  before.  In  all 
those  princely  qualities  of  our  nature  which  culmi- 
nate in  human  greatness  and  goodness,  —  strength  and 
versatility  of  mind,  generosity  and  beauty  of  soul, 
all  enshrined  in  a  grand  and  befitting  material  tem- 
ple, and  speaking  through  an  eloquent  tongue  and 
a  glowing  pen,  he  was  preeminent.  As  a  writer, 
speaker,  editor,  poet,  reformer,  friend,  and  associate, 
it  was  the  universal  testimony  of  those  who  knew 
him  best  and  esteemed  him  most  truly,  that  he 
stood  in  the  forefront  of  his  generation.  And  for 
many  years  this  anointed  prophet  dwelt  among  us, 
uttering  brave  and  truthful  words  for  freedom,  tem- 
perance, education,  and  peace,  from  lips  aglow  with 
hallowed  fire,  and  heart  aleap  with  great  pulsations 
for  all  humanity,  trying  with  all  his  herculean 
strength  to  lift  society  into  the  sunlight  of  a  pure 
Christian  civilization  ;  and  yet,  strange  to  say,  with 
all  his  grand  and  beautiful  qualities,  his  moral,  liter- 
ary, philanthropic,  and  social  excellences,  he  hardly 
gained  a  recognition  here  ;  and  so  far  from  having 
been  permitted  to  enjoy  the  sweet  and  grateful  cup 
of  friendly  intercourse,  he  was  made  the  victim  of 
calumny,  insult,  and  popular  outrage.  Posterity  will 
find  it  difficult  to  believe  the  story  of  the  cruel 
sufferings  and  indignities  that  were  heaped  upon  him 
and  his  co-laborers  in   the  cause  of  freedom." 


XIV  PREFACE. 

In  1849  Mr.  Burleigh  went  to  Syracuse,  in  the 
employ  of  the  New  York  State  Temperance  Soci- 
ety ;  and  as  lecturer,  editor,  and  corresponding  secre- 
tary, devoted  some  five  years  to  its  interests.  It 
was  in  the  summer  of  1850,  during  a  brief  stay  in 
Syracuse,  that  I  first  met  him,  and  had  the  pleasure 
of  spending  an  evening  in  his  society.  All  that 
Mr.  Gillette  describes  him  to  have  been,  he  was  at 
that  time.  I  have  met  few  men  who  at  once  im- 
pressed me  so  profoundly,  and  no  picture  of  the 
past  is  more  vivid  in  my  remembrance,  than  his 
face  and  figure  as  I  saw  him  then.  His  abundant 
dark  hair,  undulating  in  wavy  masses,  and  empha- 
sized by  a  silver  lock  on  either  temple,  was  worn 
quite  long,  and,  carelessly  thrown  back,  set  off"  to 
advantage  the  square  brow  and  strong,  earnest  face. 

Evidently  the  arrangement  of  those  locks  was  no 
heavy  tax  upon  either  the  time  or  the  thought  of 
their  owner,  any  more  than  was  the  dress,  between 
which  and  the  wearer  the  relationship  was  clearly  one 
of  mere  convenience.  "  What  a  pity  that  he  has  no 
sense  of  clothes  !  "  was  my  mental  ejaculation,  as  I  took 
in  the  tout  ensemble  of  what  I  felt  to  be  an  uncommon 
man.  Glancing  from  the  serviceable  but  not  very 
carefully  brushed  shoes  to  the  even  less  carefully 
brushed  locks,  my  eyes  encountered  his,  those  won- 
derful eyes,  which  once  seen  could  never  be  for- 
gotten, —  eyes    in  which   the    innocence    and  fun  of 


PREFACE.  XV 

boyhood,  the  fire  and  intensity  of  manhood,  and  the 
tenderness  of  the  poet  were  blended  with  a  pa- 
thetic patience  difficult  to  describe,  but  which  touched 
me  almost  to  tears.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he  must 
have  read  my  thought,  and  I  blushed  at  its  un- 
worthiuess.  Years  after,  when  our  friendship  justi- 
fied me,  as  I  thought,  in  expostulating  with  him  on 
his  carelessness  in  dress,  he  said,  "  I  should  like  to 
dress  well,  but  cannot  afford  it ; "  and  when  I  was 
beginning  to  explain  that  it  was  not  mouey  that 
was  needed,  at  least  not  much,  he  replied,  "  I  was 
not  thinking  of  the  money,  though  that  too  is  to 
be  taken  into  account,  but  of  all  the  rest  that  it 
costs."  "  I  do  not  understand  you,"  I  said.  "  Per- 
haps you  have  never  thought  how  much  besides 
money  it  costs  to  be  well  dressed.  It  would  cost 
me  an  amount  of  thought  that  I  cannot  afford ; 
partly  because  I  have  much  more  important  things 
to  think  about,  and  partly  because  it  is  a  subject  of 
which  I  know  very  little,  and  in  addition  a  wear 
and  strain  of  temper  that  I  can  afford  still  less. 
So  long  as  I  ignore  the  whole  subject,  I  am  not 
disturbed  by  it,  but  if  I  once  began  to  think  about 
it  there  would  be  no  end  to  my  annoyances.  The 
man  who  is  nothing  unless  he  is  well  -dressed  is  at 
the  mercy  of  his  laundress  ;  loses  his  temper  with 
his  shirt  buttons,  and  feels  the  waning  of  his  re- 
spectability   in    whitened    seams  and  a  lank    purse." 


XVI  PREFA  CE. 

I  mention  this  because  it  was  so  characteristic  of 
the  nian.  With  him  "  mint,  and  anise,  and  cum- 
min "  never  took  the  place  of  the  weightier  matters 
of  truth,  integrity,  and  justice.  In  his  scale,  the 
essential  values  always  stood  first. 

While  employed  by  the  State  Temperance  Society 
he  resided  a  part  of  the  time  in  Albany,  where  he 
conducted  the  "  Prohibitionist,"  the  organ  of  the  Soci- 
ety. His  duties  often  brought  him  to  New  York, 
where  I  resided  at  that  time, .and  the  acquaintance 
begun  in  Syracuse  ripened  year  by  year  into  a 
deep  and  abiding  friendship. 

I  think  every  one  who  enjoyed  Mr.  Burleigh's 
friendship  will  agree  with  me,  that  in  this,  as  in 
all  the  other  relations  of  life,  he  was  singularly  true, 
loyal,  and  steadfast.  Meeting  him  after  years  of 
separation,  one  felt  that  his  friendly  interest  was  no 
•  whit  abated.  Notoriously  a  bad  correspondent,  he 
gives  in  one  of  his  letters  the  following  good  reason 
for  being  so  :  — 

"I  need  something  more  than  time  to  enable  me 
to  write  to  a  friend.  The  Quaker  prays  when  the 
spirit  moves  him  ;  so  would  I  write  only  when  in- 
spired by  my  best  thoughts,  and  when  I  feel  that 
my  spirit  is  in  harmony  with  all  that  is  best  in 
the  soul  to  which  I  address  myself.  So  it  often 
happens  that  I  can  command  the  time,  when  I  can- 


PREFA  CE.  XV11 

not  command  the  mood,  and  often,  too,  I  feel  the 
inspiration  when  I  cannot  command  the  time.  This 
is  the  true  reason  of  my  apparent  remissness  as  a 
correspondent,  and  I  can  only  throw  myself  on  the 
indulgence  of  my  friends,  and  trust  that  they  will 
understand  my  silence  as  implicitly  as  my  speech." 

While  residing  in  Albany,  Mr.  Burleigh  became 
the  warm  personal  friend  of  Governor  Clark,  from 
whom  he  received,  in  1855,  an  unsolicited  appoint- 
ment as  Harbor  Master  of  New  York,  and  removed 
with  his  family  to  that  city.  At  the  expiration  of 
his  term  of  service  he  was  appointed  one  of  the 
Board  of  Port  Wardens,  an  office  which  "he  contin- 
ued to  hold  by  successive  appointments  till  within 
about  a  year  of  his  death.  His  family  at  the  time 
of  his  removal  to  New  York  consisted  of  himself, 
wife,  and  six  children,  —  three  sons  and  three  daugh- 
ters ;  his  first  child,  a  daughter,  having  died  in  early 
childhood.  The  constantly  increasing  expenses  of  his 
family  pressed  heavily  upon  him,  and  made  the  in- 
come derived  from  his  office  a  most  timely  aid. 
Economical  to  the  verge  of  austerity  in  his  own 
habits,  he  spent  money  freely  for  those  he  loved, 
and  nothing  less  than  the  best  educational  advan- 
tages for  his  children   would  have  satisfied  him. 

Few  men  of  the  present  age  are  so  little  fitted 
for  the  hard  struggle  of  daily  life,  —  to  encounter  the 
competitions    and    rivalries    with   which   it    abounds. 

b 


XV111  PREFACE. 

Simple  in  his  tastes,  a  lover  of  Nature,  trustful  as 
a  child,  he  would  have  been  at  home  in  some  Ar- 
cadia among  flocks  and  herds,  sitting  in  his  vine- 
wreathed  porch  to  watch  the  fading  glories  of  sun- 
set, or  entertaining  with  large  hospitality  the  stranger 
and  the  wayfarer.  The  business  of  money-getting 
was  not  to  his  taste  ;  the  present  style  of  living  he 
considered  cumbersome  and  unsatisfactory,  social  in- 
tercourse formal  and  insincere ;  but  feeling  this  he 
did  not  array  himself  against  the  usages  of  society ; 
they  gave  him  little  pleasure,  but  that  others  en- 
joyed them  was  a  sufficient  reason  for  taxing  all 
his  energies  to  supply  the  means  for  that  enjoy- 
ment. He  neither  required  nor  expected  every  one 
to  be  happy  in  his   way. 

In  a  letter  bearing  date  September,  1863,  he 
writes  :  — 

"  I  hope  you  are  in  a  condition  to  enjoy  these 
delicious  autumn  days  :  so  rich  in  subdued  light, 
so  full  of  beauty  and  repose,  such  a  glorious  proph- 
ecy of  heaven.  They  come  to  me  like  a  revelation 
of  the  love  of  God,  all-pervading  but  unobstrusive, 
subduing  but  not  oppressive,  filling  the  soul  with 
a  great  calm,  and  exalting  it  with  sweet  monitions 
of  the  better  life. 

"There  is  something  of  sadness  in  them  too,  but 
it    is    a  sadness    that    has    compensations    in    sweet 


PREFA  CE.  XIX 

thoughts,  gentle  moods,  and  pure  and  holy  aspira- 
tions. How  I  long  to  spend  them  in  the  country, 
far  away  from  the  reek  and  roar  of  the  tumultuous 
city.  Ah,  to  sit  in  the  solemn  woods  to-day,  be- 
side some  clear  brook,  and  listen  to  the  murmur  of 
the  winds  among  the  boughs  —  to  escape  from  all 
this  conventional  life,  the  feverish  existence  of  the 
town,  and  find  freedom  with  dear  mother  Nature, 
repose  in  drawing  near  to  God  !  And  yet  God  is 
as  near  to  us  in  the  thronged  thoroughfare  as  in 
the  solitude  of  His  woods;  and  wherever  His  sun- 
light falls,  or  His  stars  shine,  He  gives  us  revelations 
of  His  love." 

In  another  letter  he  says :  — 

"  You  commend  my  industry,  and  I  am  something 
of  a  worker,  though  naturally  indolent.  I  am  con- 
scious of  an  indisposition  to  do  any  work,  or  take 
any  steps,  that  I  can  without  a  violation  of  duty 
avoid.  But  in  my  official  business  I  am  a  worker  ; 
I  never  procrastinate  there,  nor  omit  the  duty  de- 
volved upon  me." 

If  Mr.  Burleigh's  estimate  of  himself  was  correct, 
if  he  was  naturally  indolent,  he  certainly  deserved 
great  credit,  not  only  for  the  faithfulness  with  which 
he  discharged  every  duty,  but  for    the  alacrity  with 


XX  PREFACE. 

which  he  served  his  friends,  and  the  labor  which 
he  voluntarily  assumed  in  aiding  the  poor  and  un- 
fortunate, and  promoting  the  reforms  he  had  so 
much  at  heart. 

In  February,  1863,  hi*3  father  died,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  two  years  following,  his  wife,  his  eldest 
daughter,  who  was  married  and  living  in  Albany, 
and  bis  eldest  son,  a  young  man  of  rare  purity  and 
beauty  of  character,  were  all  taken  from  him  by 
death. 

These  repeated  shocks,  acting  upon  a  frame  weak- 
ened by  long- continued  overwork,  told  upon  his 
health.  His  appetite  failed,  he  lost  flesh,  his  hair 
whitened,  and  those  who  saw  him  going  the  round 
of  his  daily  duties,  remarked,  "  How  rapidly  Mr. 
Burleigh  is  growing  old."  His  physician  at  length 
ordered  him  into  the  country,  but  could  induce  him 
to  remain  only  a  short  time,  the  demands  of  his 
business  seeming  imperative. 

Looking  over  his  letters  written  at  this  period,  I 
find  so  much  of  himself  in  them,  that  it  seems  to 
me  I  can  in  no  way  so  clearly  bring  him  before 
the  reader  as  by  some  extracts  from  them.  Speak- 
ing of  the  afflictions  that  had  fallen  to  his  lot  he 
says :  — 

"  This  mystery  of  suffering  must  have  some  kindly 
meaning,    and     though     1    cannot    feel    it,     and    my 


PREFACE.  xxi 

soul  rebels,  I  stay  my  faith  on  the  certainty  that 
God  is  good,  and  does  not  willingly  afflict  the  chil- 
dren of  men.  It  is  not  without  strong  wrestlings 
that  doubt  and  murmuring?  are  put  under  my  feet, 
and  I  am  enabled  to  struggle  up  into  the  purer 
atmosphere  of  faith." 

A  little  later  he  writes  :  — 

"  It  is  a  difficult  matter  for  me  to  drag  myself 
from  the  solitude  of  my  chamber.  And  yet,  I 
doubt  if  any  human  heart  was  ever  more  hungry 
for  sympathy,  and  companionship  than  is  mine. 
When  in  the  society  of  my  friends,  I  am  conscious 
of  deriving  a  real  benefit  from  the  contact  of  mind 
with  mind,  but  again  at  home  I  settle  into  the  old 
grooves,  and  seem  to  lack  the  ability  to  lift  myself 
from  them. 

"  I  carry  about  with  me  the  memory  of  so  many 
sorrows,  that  it  seems  almost  a  wrong  for  me  to 
enter  any  social  circle.  My  presence  seems  anom- 
alous and  discordant." 

And  again :  — 

"  You  ask  about  my  religion.  I  was  reared  a 
Presbyterian,  a  Puritan  of  the  Puritans ;  but  though 
I  know  that  that  faith  has  cradled   many  earnest  aud 


XX11  PREFACE. 

saintly  souls,  I  am  glad  that  my  maturity  brought 
me  emancipation  from  its  dogmas.  I  would  speak 
tenderly  of  its  devotees,  nor  undervalue  their  worth, 
but  the  time  has  long  gone  by  when  I  could  accept 
their  faith,  which  seems  to  me  a  libel  alike  upon 
God's  wisdom  and  beneficence. 

"  I  think  the  aspect  of  my  life  has  changed  some- 
what since  you  first  knew  me.  It  could  hardly  be 
otherwise.  The  world  does  not  seem  quite  the  same 
at  fifty  that  it  did  at  thirty-five.  Seen  through  my 
spectacles  it  is  sad  enough  truly,  and  yet  full  of 
beauty  and  promise.  I  see,  in  spite  of  ignorance 
and  undevelopment,  manifold  prophecies  of  the 
world's  regeneration.  I  have  faith  in  God,  and 
therefore  I  have  faith  iu  man — faith  in  God's 
purposes,  and  man's  possibilities.  For  the  rest,  I 
am  probably  more  thoughtful,  a  little  sadder,  but 
whether  more  religious  I  can  hardly  say.  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  am  religious  at  all,  as  you  would 
define  the  term,  though  I  am  conscious  of  some  as- 
pirations for  the  divine  life,  some  reaching  of  the 
soul  after  God.  Religious  conversation,  manly  and 
cheerful  in  its  tone,  wiihout  any  solemn  whine  or 
holy  snuffle,  is  very  agreeable  and  refreshing  to  me. 
I  think  that  the  legitimate  themes  of  religious  talk 
are  full  of  sweetness,  of  tenderness,  of  gladness,  and 
of  inspiration.  My  own  faith  is  to  me  very  beauti- 
ful and  full  of  help  ;  but    speculative  opinions  have 


PREFACE.  xxiil 

less  to  do  I  fancy  with  the  religious  life  than  many 
suppose.  /  To  believe  in  God  as  the  all  loving 
Father,  /to  fill  our  lives  with  the  divine  life  as  it 
was  revealed  in  Jesus,  this  is  more  than  any  creed 
or  ritual,  and  men  of  the  most  diverse  opinions 
may  unite  in  this  living  faith.  To  my  mind  the 
true  church  embraces  all  forms  of  faith  into  which 
enters  the  love  of  humanity."  I 

"  In  a  world  that  holds  so/  many  noble  natures, 
with  angels  circling  us,  and  the  perpetual  ministry 
of  beauty  in  nature  and  art,  it  should  be  very  hard 
for  us  to  live  basely  or  to  think  meanly.  The 
mountains  with  their  revelations  of  sublimity  rebuke 
us,  the  ocean  peals  its  everlasting  condemnation  in 
our  ears,  while  stars  and  flowers  remonstrate  with 
us,  if  we  entertain  thoughts  unworthy  of  our  sur- 
roundings, or  debase,  by  low  desires,  the  natures 
which   God  has  so  royally  endowed." 

"  I  love  to  breathe  the  air  with  noble  spirits  that 
dwell  in  the  light  of  God's  love,  and  are  calm  with 
His  great  peace  ;  to  be  surrounded  by  princely  na- 
tures, not  because  I  am  good,  but  because  I  would 
become  so ;  not  that  I  am  noble,  but  because  I 
desire  to  purge  my  nature  of  all  meanness.  I  thank 
God  that  He  has  kept  alive  in  my  heart  this  desire 
for  the  companionship  of  pure  and  noble  natures  ; 
and  that  my  own  grows  braver  and  stronger  through 
their    ministry.      I  cannot  afford    the    companionship 


XXIV  PREFACE. 

of  mean  and  groveling  natures.  Let  me,  rather, 
even  though  I  feel  rebuked  by  their  purity,  be 
companioned  by  the  good,  whose  lives  are  fragrant 
with  moral  courage,  hope,  and  aspiration.  They  im- 
part to  me,  at  least,  the  grace  of  shame  for  my 
own  shortcomings  and  imperfections,  and  so  sting 
me  into  efforts  for  a  better  life." 

The  following  describes  him   most  truly  :  — 

"  I  hope  my  dear  friend  that  you  will  not  fulfill 
your  threat  of  trying  the  effect  of  '  a  spicy  little 
quarrel '  with  me ;  for  I  do  not  think  I  am  what 
you  would  call  '  a  nice  person  to  quarrel  with.'  Not 
that  I  am  particularly  malevolent,  or  enduring  in 
my  resentments,  or  at  all  revengeful,  but  I  am  ex- 
tremely sensitive,  and  though  I  may  seem  to  take  an 
affront  very  quietly,  I  remember,  because  I  cannot 
forget  it.  The  hurt  that  may  seem  to  others  so 
slight  as  to  be  no  hurt  at  all,  may  leave  a  deep 
wound  which  half  a  life-time  cannot  heal.  To-day 
I  feel  sore  when  I  remember  an  unkind  word 
spoken  to  me  more  than  forty  years  ago.  It  stung 
me  then,  and  the  memory  stings  me  yet.'' 

And  this  :  — ■ 

w  Human    love  is  still    the    ladder    by  which  we 


PREFACE.  XXV 

mount  to  an  apprehension  of  God's  love.  How  can 
we  know  anything  of  love  except  through  our 
human  relationships?  Only  when  we  comprehend 
love,  and  our  relation  to  God,  do  we  begin  to 
comprehend  His  love  to  us.  Happiness  may  not  be 
essential  to  our  spiritual  growth,  nor  yet  sorrow,  but 
love  is.  A  heart  famished  for  love  grows  lean  in 
all  its  best  attributes  through  that  great  want.  A 
human  soul,  to  live  nobly,  needs  a  love  that  will 
bless  it,  not  simply  with  repose  (for  that  may  be 
found  in  apathy),  but  with  high  thoughts  and  noble 
aspirations.  Love  is  a  religion.  If  it  is  less,  it  is 
less  than  love.  It  is  a  Saviour  that  comes  always 
with  the  great  gift  of  redemption.  When  we  are 
conscious  that  our  souls  are  struggling  heavenward 
as  plants  and  trees  grow  towards  the  light,  then  be 
sure  the  Christ  has  come  to  us  once  again  with 
His  redeeming  love.  I  must  believe  with  you,  that 
by  all  means,  by  sorrow  and  loss,  by  joy  and  the 
fruition  of  cherished  hopes,  the  process  of  education 
goes  on,  and  that  not  even  sin  is  omitted  from  that 
great  corps  of  teachers." 

Speaking  of  his  political  work  in  the  fall  of  1864 
he  says  :  — 

"  Public    speaking,   added    to     the    duties    of   my 
office,  tax    me    somewhat    heavily ;    but  as    a    friend 


XXVI  PREFA  CE. 

of  liberty  and  all  which  it  involves,  I  cannot  do 
less  than  my  utmost  to  secure  the  reelection  of  Mr. 
Lincoln :  as  a  friend  of  my  country  and  all  for  which 
it  has  stood  in  the  past,  and  the  broader  good  for 
which  I  trust  it  is  destined  to  stand  in  the  future, 
I  cannot  shirk  the  responsibility  of  the  hour.  But  I 
did  work  a  little  too  hard  last  week.  On  Wednes- 
day evening  I  addressed  an  audience  of  three  thou- 
sand persons  in  Patterson,  speaking  an  hour  and 
forty  minutes,  and  the  next  evening  I  spoke  at 
Passaic  for  two  hours  and  a  quarter,  and  on  Friday 
evening  addressed  an  out-door  meeting  in  Brook- 
lyn. That  was  the  hardest  of  all,  and  hurt  me  most. 
Hereafter  I  shall  endeavor  to  limit  myself  more 
rigidly;  but  the  occasiou  is  so  august,  the  crisis  of 
the  country  so  solemn,  and  the  themes  demanding 
discussion  so  inspiring,  that  standing  before  a  large 
and  eager  audience  I  am  very  apt  to  forget  every- 
thing relating  to  myself." 

It  was  just  this  forgetfulness  of  self,  this  doing 
with  all  his  might  the  work  that  came  to  hand, 
without  ever  stopping  to  think  whether  he  was 
able  to  do  it,  that  at  length  wore  out  the  strong 
frame,  exhausted  the  vital  energies,  and  stilled  the 
pulsations  of  the  brave  heart  so  true  to  all  high 
impulses,  so  devoted  to  humanity.  During  the 
spring    and    summer  of    1865  his  health  was    poor, 


PREFACE.  XXV11 

though  he  continued  to  discharge  his  official  duties 
with  little  interruption.  In  September  of  that  year 
I  became  his  wife  ;  and  looking  back,  aided  by  my 
later  experience,  I  can  see  that  during  the  year 
preceding  our  marriage  he  suffered  repeated  attacks 
of  the  malady  which  caused  his  death,  though  he 
was  entirely  ignorant  of  their  nature,  and  fancied 
that  he  only  needed  a  few  weeks'  rest  to  restore 
him  to  perfect  health. 

A  brief  respite  from  the  duties  of  his  office  and 
the  new  interests  that  came  into  his  life  seemed  to 
have  a  beneficial  effect;  his  health  improved  rapidly, 
and  at  length  seemed  almost  perfectly  reestablished ; 
but  the  habit  of  overwork  was  fixed  upon  him,  and 
at  a  time  when  rest  and  proper  care  might  have 
ensured  to  him  many  years  of  valuable  life,  he  took 
neither,  neglected  the  warnings  which  he  had  re- 
ceived, and  made  recovery  impossible.  He  became 
the  New  York  correspondent  of  several  newspapers, 
and  after  spending  the  day  in  hard  work,  went  home 
to  a  six  o'clock  dinner  and  a  long  evening  of  liter- 
ary  work.  Looking  over  the  record  of  the  four 
years  succeeding  our  marriage,  as  it  exists  in  news- 
paper correspondence,  poems,  lectures,  and  notes  for 
political  speeches,  I  wonder  how  it  was  possible  for 
him  in  addition  to  the  duties  of  his  office,  —  which 
was  no  sinecure,  —  to  accomplish  so  much.  Not  one 
who    dashed  off    a  poem  or    letter    at  a  sitting   and 


XXVI11  PREFACE. 

without  effort,  but  a  conscientious  worker,  never 
satisfied  with  less  than  his  best,  his  literary  efforts 
were  in  no  sense  pastime,  but  real,  downright  work. 
He  was  so  constituted  that  he  had  no  choice  but 
to  put  his  best  and  his  utmost  into  whatever  he 
did. 

Associated  with  all  the  evenings  at  home  is  the 
memory  of  the  sturdy  figure  and  silvered  head 
bending  over  the  accustomed  portfolio,  and  sur- 
rounded by  books  and  papers.  At  his  work  before 
breakfast  in  the  morning,  he  continued  it  till  it  was 
time  to  go  to  his  office,  and  returning  in  the  after- 
noon, was  at  once  absorbed  in  it  again  as  if  he  had 
never  left  it.  And  yet  he  was  no  recluse  :  he  had 
a  genial  welcome  for  every  comer ;  he  was  the  soul 
of  hospitality,  and  for  wit  and  repartee  I  have  never 
known  his  equal.  To  believe  in  the  good  time 
coming  and  to  hasten  it  by  all  means  at  his  com- 
mand, to  say  pleasant  things  to  and  about  people 
and  to  help  those  who  needed  help,  were  necessities 
of  his  nature.  His  excessive  modesty  prevented  his 
deriving  that  satisfaction  from  his  literary  work  that 
it  ought  to  have  afforded  him  and  which  it  con- 
stantly did  afford  to  others.  In  a  letter  to  a  friend 
who  had  spoken,  warmly  of  one  of  his  poems,  he 
says  :  — 

"  So    you    liked    the    verses,    but    you    must    re- 


preface:  xxix 

member  that  I  do  not  claim  to  be  a  poet.  Were 
it  not  for  a  few  who  love  me,  and  who,  because 
they  love  me,  take  pleasure  in  my  verse,  I  should 
never  attempt  another  line.  I  am  often  amazed 
at  my  own  assurance  in  writing,  it  looks  so  like 
presumption  ;  as  if  I  would  thrust  myself  into  the 
company  of  inspired  souls,  with  no  power  to  speak 
the  '  Open  Sesame  '  which  can  alone  admit  one  to 
their  august  companionship.  But  indeed  I  do  not 
claim  to  be  of  their  guild." 

This  modesty  would  seem  like  affectation  in  one 
less  sincere  than  Mr.  Burleigh,  but  with  him  no 
expression  was  more  honest.  His  ideal  was  so  high 
that  his  performance  constantly  fell  below  it,  and  it 
was  always  his  habit  to  hold  himself  to  his  own 
ideal,  rather  than  to  the  standard  of  other  men's 
performance. 

Occupied  with  the  other  great  reforms  of  the 
day,  he  had  given  little  attention  to  the  subject  of 
woman's  rights  till  within  two  years  of  his  death. 
"  Why  do  you  never  attempt  to  convert  me  ?  "  he 
once  said  good-humoredly,  when  I  was  discussing 
the  question  with  a  Western  editor  who  was  our 
guest.  "  O  !  there  is  no  need,"  I  replied,  "  for  the 
subject  is  becoming  so  prominent  that  you  will  soon 
be  compelled  to  think  about  it,  and  when  you  do, 
as  you  are  a  just  man,  I  know  where  you  must 
stand." 


XXX  PREFACE. 

In  July  of  1869  he  wrote  me  :  — 

"  The  '  Tribune '  pronounces  your  Saratoga  conven- 
tion a  success.  I  hope  it  will  prove  so  in  its  results. 
The  papers  talk  absurdly  as  usual  about  women  not 
wanting  to  vote ;  but  what  has  that  to  do  with  the 
duty  of  removing  the  restriction  on  the  ballot  ? 
That  some  women  want  to  vote  is  evident,  and  if 
but  one  wished  to  exercise  this  right,  and  her  sex 
was  the  only  legal  obstacle,  it  would  be  tyranny  to 
withhold  it  from  her.  If  men  cannot  command  bet- 
ter arguments  against  the  enfranchisement  of  women 
than  they  have  yet  used,  they  had  better  let  the  case 
go  against  them  by  default.  I  am  a  little  ashamed 
of  their  puerility,  begging  pardon  of  the  children. 
I  am  not  an  advocate  of  woman's  suffrage  from 
reading  the  arguments  in  its  favor,  but  from  reading 
those  opposed  to  it.  They  have  so  utterly  failed, 
logically  and  morally,  that  I  was  compelled  to  accept 
the  position  which  I  now  hold,  that  of  a  believer 
in  woman*  suffrage." 

It  was  entirely  through  Mr.  Burleigh's  influence 
that  I  entered  upon  my  own  public  work  in  behalf 
of  woman,  and  it  was  his  dying  admonition  that  I 
should  continue  it.  No  man  had  a  more  tender 
and  reverent  appreciation  of  woman's  nature  than 
he,    and    as    her     cause    was    the    latest    which    he 


PREFACE.  XXXI 

espoused,  he  brought  to  its  advocacy  all  that  was 
noblest  in  him,  the  best  results  of  a  ripe  manhood. 
I  cannot  refrain  from  giving  a  few  extracts  from 
some  of  the  last  letters  tliat  he  ever  wrote,  showing 
how  beautiful  and  tender  was  his  thought  on  this 
subject :  — 

"  Our  praise  of  woman  is  more  just  than  our 
censure  ;  I  am  inclined  to  think  we  should  praise 
her  more  and  censure  her  less  if  we  understood  her 
better." 

"I  grieve  at  the  injustice  of  men  to  women,  but 
I  must  think  it  is  owing  in  a  great  measure  to 
their  not  understanding  them.  I  long  for  such  an 
education  of  the  sexes  as  will  make  them  really 
acquainted  with  each  other." 

u  There  is  no  tenderness  so  rich  and  sweet  and 
healing  as  the  tenderness  of  woman.  When  I  think 
of  her  mini>tration  I  long  to  unsay  every  harsh  or 
impatient  word  that  I  ever  uttered  to  or  of  a 
woman."  "  The  noble  women  whom  I  have  known 
have  been  to  me  at  once  a  prophecy  of  the  future 
of  humanity,  and  the  highest  revelation  of  God." 

He  took  a  lively  interest  in  Sorosis  and  the 
Brooklyn  Woman's  Club,  and  was  the  honored  friend 
of  both.  During  the  last  weeks  of  his  life  there 
was    rarely  a  day  that  both    organizations   were  not 


XXX11  PREFACE. 

represented  by  flowers  in  his  room,  and  at  his 
funeral  the  whole  church  was  made  fragrant  and 
beautiful  by  their  abundance.  For  the  sake  of  Mr. 
Burleigh's  personal  friends  I  would  gladly  tell  the 
story  of  the  last  eighteen  months  of  his  life.  But 
they  will  pardon  me,  and  understand  why  I  do  not. 
A  mere  sketch  must  suffice. 

In  August  of  1869  there  was  a  recurrence  of  the 
epileptic  attacks  from  which  for  more  than  three 
years  he  had  been  entirely  free.  Neither  he  nor  any 
member  of  the  family  had  any  idea  of  their  nature, 
nor  did  his  physician  enlighten  them  till  the  following 
January,  when  a  very  severe  one,  followed  by  great 
and  continued  prostration,  made  further  concealment 
impossible.  To  the  hour  of  his  death  Mr.  Bur- 
leigh had  no  suspicion  of  the  real  nature  of  his 
disease,  but  fancied  that  he  was  suffering  from  over- 
work and  that  a  short  period  of  rest  would  restore 
him. 

In  January,  1870,  he  was  removed  from  the  office 
whose  duties  he  had  so  faithfully  discharged,  to  make 
room  for  one  of  Governor  Hoffman's  appointees,  and 
early  in  the  spring  following  we  went  into  the 
country,  where  we  remained  till  November.  Shortly 
before  leaving  town  Mr.  Burleigh  was  made  happy 
by  receiving  a  visit  from  his  old  friend  and  co- 
worker, John  G.  Whittier.  Referring  to  this  visit 
in  a  letter    received    since    his    death,  Mr.  Whittier 


PREFACE.  xxxiii 

says :  "  How  glad  I  am  that  I  saw  him  last  spring. 
I  had  heard  that  his  health  was  feeble,  but  he 
seemed  so  bright,  genial,  and  happy,  that  I  never 
dreamed  of  his  passing  on  before  me." 

In  the  course  of  the  summer  we  spent  some  days 
at  Gerrit  Smith's,  and  it  was  delightful  to  hear  the 
two  veteran  reformers  discuss  the  people  and  inci- 
dents of  the  early  anti  slavery  times.  At  a  picnic  one 
afternoon  we  met  the  Rev.  Samuel  J.  May,  between 
whom  and  Mr.  Burleigh  a  strong  attachment  existed. 
They  strolled  away  together  for  a  long  talk,  and 
Mr.  Burleigh  recurred  to  it  many  times  as  one  of 
the  delightful  episodes  of  the  summer.  Able  to  do 
very  little  reading  or  literary  work,  he  gave  him- 
self up  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  beautiful  world 
about  him.  He  took  long  walks  over  the  hills,  ex- 
plored the  woods  and  ravines,  or  sat  by  the  hour 
together  under  the  maples  in  front  of  the  house, 
sometimes  playing  with  the  year-old  baby,  and  at 
others  drinking  in  the  song  of  the  birds,  or  the 
rustle  of  the  wind  among  the  boughs.  "  It  is  all 
so  beautiful,"  he  used  to  say,  his  eyes  sometimes 
filling  with  tears  as  he  drank  in  the  scene  and  felt 
its  peaceful   influence 

Never  did    his    cheerful    sunny  nature  find  fuller 

expression   than  during  this  last  summer  of  his  life, 

when  day   by  day  he  was  descending  into   the   valley 

whose    shadows  were    soon    to    hide    him  from    our 

e 


XXXIV  PREFACE. 

eyes.  Eejoicing  in  his  long  holiday,  as  he  called 
his  emancipation  from  official  and  literary  work,  — 
the  first,  he  said,  that  he  had  ever  known,  —  per- 
fectly unconscious  of  his  condition,  and  making  plans 
for  the  future  when  a  few  months'  rest  should  have 
restored  him  to  health,  there  was  something  very 
pathetic  in  his  condition,  to  those  who  loved  him, 
and  knew  that  his  disease  was  incurable.  With 
wThat  zest  he  entered  into  the  life  of  those  about 
him  !  How  he  rejoiced  in  every  touch  of  beauty  — 
in  the  glory  of  sunset,  the  soft  splendors  of  moon- 
light, the  purple  mist  on  the  distant  hills ;  while 
his  inexhaustible  stores  of  wit  and  anecdote  were 
the  delight  of  the  household. 

In  November  we  returned  to  our  home  in  Brook- 
lyn, but  it  was  only  too  evident  that  the  summer's 
rest  had  brought  no  accession  of  health  or  strength. 
Early  in  December  Mr.  Burleigh  went  to  Washing- 
ton, Pa.,  to  fill  a  lecture  engagement,  and  to  visit 
his  old  friends,  Dr.  Le  Moyne  and  his  family.  Here 
he  spent  several  weeks,  thoroughly  enjoying  his  visit, 
and  impressing  all  he  met  with  the  sweetness  and 
beauty  of  his  spirit.  Referring  to  this  visit,  one  of 
the  family  has  thus  written  me  since  his  death  : 
"  How  glad  we  all  are  to  have  had  him  with  us 
once  more  ;  our  dear  old  friend,  so  thoughtful,  gentle, 
and  wise.  We  all  loved  him  years  ago,  and  are 
thankful    to    have    had    the    privilege  of   seeing  him 


PREFACE.  xxxv 

again  in  his  maturity,  his  character  enlarged,  up- 
lifted, hallowed  by  his  large  and  varied  experience. 
He  was  certainly  one  of  the  most  child-like  persons 
I  ever  knew.  He  enjoyed  like  a  child,  —  his  faith, 
simplicity,  and  trust  were  child-like,  but  united  with 
rare   wisdom,  culture,  and  experience." 

Tins  was  the  last  time  he  left  home.  Returning, 
his  strength  failed  rapidly,  and  he  was  more  and 
more  confined  to  his  room.  In  February,  being  in- 
vited to  attend  the  silver  weddiug  of  some  old 
friends  in  Syracuse,  the  same  at  whose  house  I  first 
met  him,  he  responded  in  the  following  playful 
manner  :  — 

On  this  auspicious  day,   could  all  my  wishes 

That  peace  be  yours,  and  happiness  and  health, 

Assume  the  varied  forms  of  silver  dishes, 

How  would  your  tables  glitter  with  their  wealth. 

But  since  no  sprite  can  work  this   transformation, 
I  send  my   simple  blessing  in   this   rhyme, 

With  hearty  love  and  honest  admiration 

That   still  grows  stronger  with  the  passing   time. 

May  the  good  angels  evermore  attend  you, 
And  make  your  days   all  beautiful  and  fair  ; 

And  since  no  other  silver  can  I  send  you, 
I  send  a  lock  of  my  own  silver  hair. 

He  suffered  little  at  any  time  during  his  illness 
except  the    lassitude  of   extreme   weakness,  and   was 


XXXVI  PREFACE. 

so  bright  and  cheerful  that  the  friends  who  called 
to  see  him  could  hardly  persuade  themselves  that 
he  was  seriously  ill.  It  was  not  till  within  a  week 
of  his  death  that  he  himself  became  aware  of  his 
condition.  He  was  the  first  to  speak  of  it;  for 
though  his  brothers  were  with  him,  and  his  pastor, 
John  W.  Chadwick,  —  for  whom  he  had  almost  a 
fatherly  affection,  —  called  often  to  see  him,  we  all 
felt  that  his  whole  life  had  been  a  preparation  for 
his  death,  and  that  it  was  not  important  that  the 
subject  should  be  thrust  upon  his  attention  even 
though  he  should  pass  away  with  no  recognition  of 
the  fact  that  he  was  going.  Had  he  gone  withouf 
a  word  of  farewell,  we  who  were  left  should  have 
felt  the  loss,  but  we  should  have  had  no  fears  for 
him.  One  who  had  lived  his  life  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  ready  for  the  Master's  call.  Wak- 
ing from  a  gentle  sleep  the  Monday  morning  before 
he  died,  he  said,  "I  shall  not  be  with  you  much 
longer.  I  want  to  tell  you  about  my  affairs,  and 
make  such  arrangements  as  I  can  to  help  you  in 
the  future." 

For  as  much  as  two  hours  he  talked  with  per- 
fect coherence,  giving  directions  and  leaving  mes- 
sages for  absent  friends.  When  asked  if  he  was  sorry 
to  go,  he  said :  "  I  had  hoped  for  a  few  more  years 
of  work.  Life  has  been  very  beautiful  to  me  in 
spite  of  many  sorrows,   but  I  know  that  it  does  not 


PREFACE.  XX.wii 

end  here."  All  his  directions  were  full  of  that 
thoughtful  care  for  others  which  was  always  oue  of 
his  most  marked  characteristics.  Nothing  was  for- 
gotten  or  overlooked  that  could  help  the  dear  ones 
whom  he  was  leaving,  and  even  in  making  some 
suggestions  about  his  burial  his  own  preference  was 
made  subordinate  to  the  wishes  and  convenience  of 
others.  Having  finished  his  arrangements  he  said : 
"  I  have  made  a  great  many  mistakes,  but  I  have 
tried  to  live  a  manly  and  true  life,  and  to  serve 
God  by  helping  humanity.  In  leaving  the  world 
it  is  with  no  bitter  self-condemnation  ;  my  purpose 
has  been  honest  and   upright." 

And  so  passed  away  on  the  afternoon  of  March 
18th,  1871,  this  brave,  manly  soul,  ending  a  life 
patient  and  self-sacrificing,  tender  and  heroic.  So 
quietly  had  he  gone  about  his  business,  so  uncom- 
plainingly had  he  borne  whatever  burdens  duty  im- 
posed, so  modest  had  been  his  estimate  of  himself, 
that  it  was  only  when  his  place  was  left  vacant, 
that  those  who  knew  him  realized  how  good  an  in- 
fluence was  withdrawn,  how  earnest  and  helpful  a 
nature   had  gone  out  of  their   lives. 

I  should  like  to  include  in  this  sketch  a  few  at 
least  of  the  many  touching  tributes  to  his  memory 
that  have  reached  me  in  letters  of  condolence,  or  in 
notices  of  the  press.  But  for  the  most  part  the 
former  are  of    too  personal  a  character    to  be   made 


XXXV111  PREFACE. 

public,  and  the  latter  have  already  had  a  wide  cir- 
culation. With  a  sonnet  from  Theodore  Tilton,  and 
an  extract  from  a  sermon  by  Mr.  Chadwick,  preached 
the  Sunday  after  Mr.  Burleigh's  funeral,  I  close  this 
sketch.  Of  its  incompleteness  and  inadequacy  I  am 
more  sensible  than  any  one  else  can  be,  for  I  better 
that  any  one  else  know  the  worth  and  beauty  of 
the  character  which  it  attempts  to  portray.  For 
the  rest,  its  preparation  has  been  a  labor  of  love, 
bringing  with  it  a  sense  of  companionship  that  has 
made  me  linger  over  my  task,  and  dread  its  com- 
pletion. For  the  sake  of  the  reader,  I  wish  I  might 
have  done  it  much  better ;  for  the  more  life-like  the 
portrait,  the  more  I  am  sure  would  it  attract  and 
interest. 

"  Is  this  the  only  tribute  we  should  pay  — 

These  funeral  flowers  that  on  his  bier  belong  ? 
Himself  a  singer,  he  deserves  a  song  ; 

But  who  has  any  heart  to  sing  to-day  ? 

Should   any  stranger  chance  to  come  this  way, 
And  view,   with  tearles3  eyes,  this  lump  of  earth, 
And  call  for  witness  to  its  living  worth, 

O,  loving  are  the  words  we  then  could  say ! 

But  since  to  make  a  memory  for  our  dead, 

His  virtues  —  Truth,  Faith,  Honor,  and  the  rest  — 

With  one  loud-chanted  requiem  all  have  said, 
'  Behold,   our  chosen  dwelling  was  his  breast  !  ' 

Since  tongues  like  these  have  spoken,  dumb  be  ours  I 

So  let  us  sweetly  leave  him  with  his  flowers." 


PREFACE.  xxx  ix 

Mr.  Chad  wick's  sermon  was  from  the  text,  "  Now 
are  we  happier  than  when  we  believed,"  and  con- 
cluded as  follows :  — 

"I  cannot  let    you  go  this  morning   without  once 
more  awakening  in    your    grateful    remembrance  the 
thought  of    one   who  always  loved  to   be  in   our  as- 
sembly, but  whose  kindly  face  we  shall  not  see  again 
I  might  draw  many  lessons   for    you  from    his    life, 
so  brave  and  beautiful,   so  patient,  still,  and  strong. 
But    I  will    only  say  that    he   was    such  a  man    as 
this  morning  I  have    been  saying  that   we  all  ought 
to  be.     He  was  no  bigot,  he   was  no  dogmatist  ;  he 
kept  his    mind    open   and    hospitable,  and   so    enter- 
tained many  angelic    thoughts   which  the  shut  doors 
of  other    minds  exclude.      From  faith  to  faith,  such 
was  his    progress  from    the   beginning    to    the    end. 
He  never    thought  he    had  enough  of    God,  he  was 
a    seeker    to    the    last,  holding    his  views  subject  to 
constant  revision.     The  convictions  of  his  early  man- 
hood, as  he  grew  older,  failed  to  satisfy  his  growing 
mind.      He  did    not    try  to  make    them,  but  waited 
the   coming    inspiration.      He   went  forth    like   Abra- 
ham, not  knowing   whither    he  went ;  he  only  knew 
that    the    truth   was    leading    him.      He    got  farther 
and  farther    away  from   the  conventional  methods   of 
religion,  but  now  was  his  salvation  nearer  than  when 
he    believed.     It    came    to    him    in    a  new  faith    in 


xl  PREFACE. 

God  and  man ;  in  a  new  charity  for  the  most  differ- 
ent opinions  from  his  own  ;  in  a  new  love  for  every 
living  thing,  —  aye,  and  for  things  not  living,  —  for 
he  loved  everything,  from  rocks,  woods,  and  waters, 
up  to  truth  and   God." 


CONTEXTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


PAGE 

Called  Home        

1 

The  True  Faith 

3 

Magdalena  

5 

The  Sfhyju 

12 

Shelley          

16 

Expostulation 

.      18 

The  Weaver 

.        .        .          12 

Forgiveness 

.      21 

At  Niagara 

22 

Life . 

.      24 

Weep  not  for  the  Dead  .... 

25 

Beauty       

.      26 

To  Mary  Dawson 

27 

The  Lesson 

.      28 

<"hannixg 

31 

Gifted  for  Giving         .... 

.       34 

The  I'oet 

36 

The  Visionary 

.       38 

A  Rhyme  of  Peterboro      .... 

40 

The  Angel  of  the  Home 

.       43 

To  Emma  Willakd 

45 

xlii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Benedicite.     (S.  C.  W.) 47 

The  Rhyme  of  the  Cable 48 

A  Reminiscence 51 

Annie  Bell, 52 

Answered 58 

Pierpont 59 

A  Portrait 62 

We  are  Scattered 67 

VOICES   OF   THE  YEARS. 

The  Old  and  the  New 69 

What  the  Old  Year  Said 73 

Good-by,  Old  Year 78 

Dirge  of  the  Old  Year 80 

A  Rhyme  for  the  New  Year 82 

SONGS   OF  LOVE  AND   HOME. 

FORTISSIMA 85 

The  Avowal    .        ., 88 

Her  Name 90 

Response 95 

Dora 97 

Revisited 103 

Benediction 106 

Beatrice 108 

The  Lost  Star Ill 

No  Home 114 

Song 118 

Not  Mine 120 

Destiny 122 

Agatha 124 


COS  TEXTS.  xlii 


111 


PAGE 

Forsaken 127 

A  Birth-Day  Tribute 129 

At  the  Goal 131 

Within  the  Veil 136 

The  Early  Dead 138 

The  Child  Angel 141 

Mary 144 

The  Flower-Bringer 147 

The  Old 150 

Lilian 152 

The  Little  Girl's  Song 155 

Married 157 

Possession 160 

You  and  I 162 

Bessie 165 

Threnody 168 

Birthday  Song 171 

WITH    NATURE. 

Nature's  Worship 173 

Sonnet 177 

Spring 178 

Sugar  Brook 180 

May 182 

June 184 

The  Song  of  the  Mowers 187 

Summer  Morning 189 

Noon  in  Mid.-lmmer 191 

The  Bain 192 

Summer 193 

Winter 194 

December 196 


xliv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SONGS   OF  FREEDOM  AND  FATHERLAND. 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers 198 

To-Day 199 

Emancipation  in  the  West  Indie* 202 

Song  of  the  Emancipated 204 

Freedom's  Apocalypse 206 

Revolution 211 

The  Times 212 

The  Martyr 21-1 

William  Lloyd  Garrison 216 

The  Old  Banner 217 

Ellsworth 221 

The  Pkayer  of  a  Nation     .......  226 

The  Banner  of  Freedom 229 

Enfranchised 232 

Abraham  Lincoln 234 

Sonnet 235 

FAITH   AND  ASPIRATION. 

"Show  us  the  Father" 236 

Still  will  we  Trust 239 

"  Non  Omnis  Moriar  " 241 

"  Let  there  be  Light  " 247 

Good  in  III 249 

"In  the  Night  Season" 251 

Admonition 253 

"Rejoice  in  the  Lord  Always" 256 

"Blessed  are  they  that  Mourn"          ....  258 

Our  Refuge 260 

Needed  Blessings 26  L 

Domine,  ne  in  Furore  .                263 


CONTENTS.  xlv 

PAGE 

MlSEKERE   DOMINE 266 

Thanksgiving 269 

A  Prayer  for  Guidance 270 

Faith's  Repose 271 

"  Te  Deum  Laudamus  " 272 

"Blessed  are  the  Pure  in  Heart"         ....  273 

A  Psalm  of  Xight 275 

Supplication 277 

The  Beautiful  Land 279 

A  Morning  Hymn 282 

Farmer's  Noonday  Hymn 284 

Evening  Thank-Offering 287 

"Upon  the  Watch-Tower" 289 

Optimus 291 

Loss  and  Gain 294 

Matins 295 

The  Harvest-Call 296 

Aspiration 298 

Our  Offering 301 

Ordination*  Hymn 303 

Gifts 305 


POEMS. 


Unfinished  work,  let  fall  from  dying  hands, 
Has  deeper  meanings  than  are  voiced  in  tears : 

Fair  blooms,  whose  fruitage  is  in  brighter  lands, 
They  breathe  the  fragrance  of  immortal  years, 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


CALLED    HOME. 

A  noble   Soul,  that  nobly  did  aspire, 

Still  struggling  upward  like  imprisoned  fire, 

Has  heard  the  Master's  mandate,  "  Come  up  higher ! 

And  from  its  shattered  tenement  of  clay 
It  sprang,  and  soared  exultingly  away, 
Soaring  and  singing  in  Eternal   Day,  — 

Glad,  thus  to  leave  the  fetters  it  had  worn  ; 
Glad,  thus  to  rise  ou  angel-pinions  borne, 
Dp  to  the   Golden  Palaces  of  Morn  ! 

It  is  best  so  !  —  the  shadows  of  the  Night 

Furl  from  our  sky  —  for  faith   is   more  than   sight, 

And  this  great  Soul  was  kindred  with   the   Light, 

And  walked  in  light,  made  lustrous  by  its  sheen, 

And  kept,  unsullied  by   the  false  and  mean, 

The  pure,  white  vesture  of  its  manhood  clean. 

1 


2  CALLED  HOME. 

Life's  battle's  fought :   and   now,  the  victor's  palm, 
The   welcome   home,   the  everlasting  calm, 
The  crown  of  triumph,  and  the  choral  psalm ! 

What   would  we  more  ?     In   faith   we  lift  our  eyes, 
While  a  Voice   whispers  from   the  opening  skies, 
"  He  lives,  embosomed  in    God's  sanctities ! " 


THE    TRUE    FAITH. 

INSCRIBED     TO     OXE     WHO     SHOWS     IT     BY     HIS    WORKS. 

I  deem  his  faith  the  best 
Who  daily  puts  it  into  loving  deeds 
Done  for  the  poor,  the  sorrowing,  the  oppressed  — 

For  these  are  more   than  creeds ; 
And,  though  our  blinded  reason  oft  may  err, 
The  heart  that  loves  is  faith's  interpreter. 

The  schoolman's  subtle   skill 
Wearies  itself   with  vain  philosophies 
That  leave  the  world  to  grope  in  darkness  still, 

Haply,  from  lies  to  lies ; 
But   whoso  doeth  good  with  heart  and  might 
Dwells  in  and   is  made  joyful   by  the  light. 

One  hand  outreached   to  man 
In   helpfulness,  the  other  clings   to   God; 
And  thus  upheld   he  walks,  through   time's  brief  ppan, 

In    ways   that  Je-us   trod  ; 
Taught   by    His   Spirit,  and  sustained  and   led, 
That  life,   like   His,   by  love   is   perfected. 


4  THE   TRUE  FAITH. 

Such  faith,  such  love  are  thine  ! 
Creeds  may  be  false  —  at  best,  misunderstood  ; 
But  whoso  reads  the  autograph  divine 

Of    Goodness  doing  good, 
Need  never  err  therein  :    come  life,  come  death, 
It  copies   His  —  the   Christ  of   Nazareth  ! 


MAGDALENA. 

Too  perilously  beautiful !     The  world 

For  her  had  snares  and  pitfalls  numberless, 

And  if   she  fell  — 

Nay,  hide  not  with  an  if 
The  hard,  black  fact,  the  sum  of   her  distress, 
Toppling  her  headlong  from   love's  dizzying  cliff, 
Down  —  down  —  despairing —  to  shame's  lowest  hell, 
"Where  every  memory  is  a  pang  !    She  fell! 

Ask  not  what  radiant  hopes  with  her  were  hurled 
To  that  abyss,  never  to  bloom  again  ; 
What  hearts,  made  atheist,  in  extremest  woe 
Asked,  "  Is  there  a  just  God  ?  "  and  answered,  u  No  !  " 
What  eyes,  tear-blinded,  looked  for  Heaven  in  vain, 
Seeing  that  lurid  horror  everywhere,  — 
Above,  around,  —  that  smote  them  with  its  glare, 
Till  death   shut  down  their  lids  and  gave   them  rest. 

She  fell,  poor  Magdalena  !    God,  not  I  — 
God,    who    knows    all    things,  knows    the  how  and 
why  ; 


6  MAGDALEN  A. 

Knows,  too,  how  long  she  strove,  while  sore   beset ; 
How   strong,  temptation ;   how  sincere,  regret ; 
What  tears  of   penitence,  from  day  to  day. 
Have   washed  the  sin-stains  from  her  soul  away  ; 
What  pardoning  mercy,  haply,  hath  been  given, 
In  whose  sweet  peace  she  catches  gleams  of  Heaven 
And  feels  how  He  can  bless,  while  erring  man 
With  scorn   would  blast  her,  and   with  curses  ban. 


Whate'er  she  is,  O  scoffing  Pharisee ! 

Whate'er,  world-damned   and  lost,  she  yet   may  be  — 

Whether,  grown  reckless  in  her  great  despair, 

She  flouts  all  scorn,  all   paths  of  sin   shall  dare  ; 

Or,  blotting  out  the  past  with   bitter  tears, 

Give   to  contrition  all  her  future   years  — 

Remember  this  (and  if   thine  arms  caress 

A  child  so  dowered   with  dangerous  loveliness, 

Ask   thou  that   God  will  keep  and  shelter  her, 

And  O,  be  pitiful  to  all  who  err  !)  — 

Once,  she  was  innocent !     Ah,  well-a-day  ! 

How  dirge-like  sounds  that   once,  —  a  funeral   wail 

Voiced  in  one  word,  since  prayers  nor  tears  avail 

To  build  anew  life's  Eden   swept  away 

By  the  strong  floods  of   passion  !     Once,  nor  guile, 

Nor  sinful  wish,  nor  perilous  desire, 

Nor  love  consuming  with  erotic  lire, 

Dwelt  in  her  heart,  the  home  of  joy  erewhile, 

Of  joy  and  chastity  and  sweet  content. 


MAG  D  ALEX  A.  ( 

And  so  her  sixteenth  summer  came  and   went. 
Songs  rippled  from  her  lips,  and  listening  birds. 
Her  glad  companions,  sung  to  mock  her  words  ; 
And  the   wildwood  flowers  caught  a  lovelier  dye 
From   the  warm  sunshine  of   her  laughing  eye ; 
And  gleeful  children  plucked   her  garment's  hem 
To  ask  for  stories  or  a  romp  with   them  ; 
And   very  Nature,  one  would    almost  guess, 
Thrilled,  as  if  sentient,  to  her  loveliness. 

Seventeen  bright  years,  whose  every   passing  hour 
Some  gift  of  beauty,  or  of  bliss  some  dower 
Brought  for  her  sweet  acceptance  —  and  she  stood, 
Eager,  upon  the  edge  of   womanhood, 
Filled   with  vague  yearnings  and  prophetic  fears, 
That    flushed    her    cheek  and  touched  the  fount  of 

tears  ; 
A  troubled  joy  whose  meaning  scarce  she   knew, 
Like  fire  electric  thrilled   her  through   and   through  ; 
And  soon  the  truth  that  lurked  in   that  surprise, 
Shone   with  its   tender  meanings  from  her  eyes  ; 
And   the   white  billows  of  her  heaving  breast, 
Made   the  new   power   that  swayed   her   manifest. 

One   rich  in  manly  grace,  and  richly  dowered 
With  gifts  of  genius,  on  whom  fate  had  showered 
Gold,  fame,  and   all   that  gold  and  fame  can   bring, 
With   vague    philosophies,  bewildering 


8  MAGDALEN  A. 

Her  untaught  reason ;    with  delicious  lies, 
Named  in  our  courtly  language  flatteries ; 
With  vows  that  seemed  a  worship,  sought  to  thrall 
Her  heart,  till  then  a  stranger  to  love's    glow. 
His  words  were  warm  with  life,  aud  sweet  and  low 
Dropped  on  her  ear  —  dropped,  silver-musical, 
On  her  unguarded  soul,  and  waked  at  once 
Within  its  depths  such  passionate  response 
As  told  him  she  was  his  —  her  law  his  will ; 
His,  living,  dying  —  his,  for  good  or  ill. 

Needs  not  to  tell  with  what  a  subtle  power 

He  led  her  on,  involved  in  dazzling  mist, 

To  do,  to  be  whatever  he  might  list  — 

A  pretty  toy  for  passion's  idle  hour, 

A  splendid  trophy  of   his  dev'lish  art ; 

Two   words,  condensing  all  she  deemed  of  hell, 

Sums  the  sad  story  of  her  life — she  fell! 

Awaked  at  length  from  the  bewildering  dream 
That  had  enthralled  her  senses,  shuddering, 
She  sees  the  serpent's  coil,  and  feels  the  sting 
Of   dire  remorse,  that  pours  a  fiery  stream 
Of   shame  and  horror,  anguish  and  despair, 
Through  every  nerve  and  brain  and  heart  and  soul ; 
Till  heaven  grows  black  above  her,  and  the  air 
Quivers  with  one  vast  curse,  whose  billowy  roll 
Swells  louder,  nearer,  as  if  all  that  hell 


MAGDALEN  A.  9 

Can  hold  of  monstrous  or  of   terrible, 

With   fiendish  impulse,  upward  and  afar, 

Howled   their  fierce  hate  in  one  anathema. 

In   woman's  gentle  nice  she  read  the  curse  ; 

On  manhood's  lip  'twas  charactered  in   scorn  ; 

And  the  young  children  looked  with  wondering  eyes, 

As  'twere  a  marvel  in    God's  universe 

That  one  so  lovely  should  be  so  forlorn. 

Nay.  all   the  outer  world  seemed  changed   to  her, 

Even  as  the  world  within  ;  and  birds  and  flowers 

And  voiceful  streams,  and  the  vine  festooned  bowers 

In   the  old  woods  beneath  the  summer  skies, 

And  clouds  and  stars,  once  prompt   to   minister 

To  her  delight,  could  charm  no  more  her  sense, 

Nor  soothe  her  soul   with  their  sweet  influence  ; 

But  all  of   Nature,  heard  or  felt  or  seen, 

Echoed  the  fearful  words,  "  Unclean  !    unclean  !  " 


Before  mine  eyes  a  vision  of  the   past 
Comes  with  a  beauty  perfect  and  divine, 
Whose  soothing  spell  is  o'er   my  spirit  cast. 
I  seem  to  tread  the  land   whose  every  sod 
Glows   with   the   footsteps  of  the   Son  of  God  ; 
To   breathe    the   odorous   air  of  Palestine, 
Where,  'mid  her  circling  hills,  Bet  like  a  gem, 
Shines   the  fair  city  of  Jerusalem. 


10  MAGDALEN  A. 

Not  for  the  warlike  pomp  of   Jesse's  son, 

Nor  for  the  kinglier  state  of   Solomon, 

Nor  for  its  temple  rising  silently, 

A  miracle  of  beauty,  to  the  sky, 

With  cedar  pillars  and  its  roof  of  gold, 

And  splendors  marvelous  and   manifold, 

Remembered  now :    but  rather  that  His  tread  — 

The  Man  of  Sorrows  —  left  an  impress  there 

Which  made  it  holy,  though   He  had  not   where 

Amidst  its  thousand   homes   to  lay  his  head. 

I  see  the  dark-browed   throng  around   Him  stand, 
Cunning  and  hate  and  treachery  in   their  eyes  ; 
While,  like  a  victim  bound  for  sacrifice, 
With   cheeks  that    bum    with    shame,  and    drooping 

mien, 
Waits   with  hushed  breath   the  trembling  Magdalene. 
And  the  meek  Teacher  writes   upon   the  sand. 

See !    as  He  lifts  his  sad  rebuking  face, 

What  scorn  for  them,  for  her  what  pitying  grace 

Is  in  his  glance,  which  pierces  through  and  through 

The  thin  disguises  of   hypocrisy  — 

The  tattered  truth  that  wraps  the  specious  lie  — 

And  all  their  hearts  are  open  to  his  view. 

Not  harsh,  nor  loud,  but  cold  and  passionless, 
The  words  He  speaks  their  malice  to  confound  : 


MAGDALEN  A.  H 

"  Let  him   among  you  who  is  free  from  sin 

Cast  the   first   stone!"   and.   stooping,  on   the  ground 

He   writes   again. 

Convicted   by  the  stress 
Of    the  stern   monitor  that  speaks  within, 
Silently,  one   by  one,  they  slink  away 
Like  evil   spirits  from  the  light  of   day. 
But  O,  with   what  divinest  tenderness 
His  accents  fall  upon  her  soul  and   sense, 
Who   wept  hot  tears  of   shame  and  penitence, 
The  poor,  wronged,  sinning,  sorrowing  Magdalene, 
And  sweet  assurance  to  her  spirit  bore 
Of  pardon,  and  of   hope,  and  peace  serene,  — 
"  Nor  I  condemn  thee  ;  go,  and  sin  no  more" 


THE    SPHYNX. 

Hey  diddle  diddle !    the  cat  and  the  fiddle  ! 
Find  me  a  Seer  to  read  life's  riddle ! 
The  sable  crows  fly  over  the  river  — 

Caw  !    caw  !    caw  ! 
And  their  glossy  wings  in  the  sunlight  quiver, 

Evermore  to  their    Caw  !    caw ! 
As  they  wheel  and  sink,  or  soar  and  turn  ; 
But  the  wisest  man  cannot  discern 
Of   their  life  and  motion  the  hidden  laws, 
The  why  they  fly,  or  the  cause  of   their  caws. 

Hey  diddle  diddle  I   the  cat  and  the  fiddle ! 

Nature  herself  is  an  unguessed  riddle ! 

On  the  warm  hill-side  the  grass  grows  greenly 
While  the  showers  of  the  May-time  fall 

And  the  yellow  dandelions  throw 

O'er  the  meadows  broad  .a  golden  glow  ; 

But  you  cannot  tell,  for  you  do  not  know, 

How  the  buds  are  born,  or  the  grasses  grow, 
Or  why  by   the  stilly  brook  the  lily, 
Stately  and  tall,  looks  over  them  all, 

With  a  regal  pride,  serenely,  queenly, 


THE  SPHYNX.  13 

That  says  as  plainly  as  words  can  say, 
"  I  am  queen  of   all  the  flowers  of   May, 
And  by  right  of   queenship,  willy  nilly, 
Over  them  all  assert  my  sway !  " 

Hey  diddle  diddle  !   the  cat  and  the  fiddle  ! 
Man  and  his  motives  are  all  a  riddle! 
In  the  human  heart,  that  wondrous  thing, 
Moved  by  many  a  hidden  spring 

To  the  noblest  good  or  the  meanest  ill, 
What  passions  fierce  or  dark  are  born,  — 
Love  and  hate,  and  fear  and  scorn, — 

To  lord  it  over  the  mighty  will, 
And  make  their  parent  the  veriest  slave 
That  ever  crawled   to  a  vassal  grave ! 
You  may  trace  their  track  by  the  gloom  or  glow 
That  over  the  path  of   life  they  throw  ; 
But  whence  they  come,  or  whither  they  go, 
You  cannot  tell,  for  you  do  not  know  ! 

Hey  diddle  diddle  !    the  cat  and  the  fiddle ! 
The  heart  is  a  wonder  and  life  is  a  riddle  ! 
Alas !    how  little  we  know  about 
The  world  within  or  the  world   without ! 
From  the  sentient  soul  to   the  lifeless  clod 
We  can  only  see  they  are  very  odd. 
Marvel  and  question   and  search   may   we, 
Hut  the  credo  ever  ends  in  doubt ; 


14  THE  SPIIYNX. 

And   we  turn  from  the  Now  to  the  dread  To   Be, 
Baffled  ever  by  all  we  see  — 
Mystery  within  mystery. 

Hey  diddle  diddle!    the  cat  and  the  fiddle  ! 
The  soul  is  a  riddle  involved  in  a  riddle ! 
Then,  mortal,  rest  your  weary  brain, 
Since  all  your  cudgelings  are  in   vain, 
And   know  that  the  best  philosophy  yet 
Begins  with  "Don't"  and  ends  with  "Fret!" 
Beginning,   middle,  and  end  —  "Don't  fret!" 
Death   will  make  the  mystery  plain, 

And  all  that  is  dark  in  a  clear  light  set  ; 

And  death  is  certain  :  so,  don't  fret ! 

Fussing  and   fuming  disturb  the  brain, 
And  dash  with  acid  the  lacteal  flow 
Of   human  kindness,  till  ere  you  know, 
A  pond'rous  cheese  usurps  the  breast, 
Nightmare-y  and  heavy  and  Dutch  at  best. 

Let  the  sable  crows  fly  over  the  river, 


Caw! 


caw  !    caw  ! 


Let  the  grasses  grow  and  the  flowers  bloom  ever 

Obedient  to  an  unknown  law ; 
And  love  and   hate,  and  wrath  and  fear, 
Fulfill  their  mission  a  few  days  here, 
Till  their  force  is  spent,  or  their  work  is  done, 
Till  we  are  cold  in  the  dark,  damp  mould, 


THE  SPHYNX.  15 

Till  the  song,   is  sung  and   the   tale   is   told, 
And  the  secret  of  life  in  death  is   won  ! 
Hey  diddle  diddle  !    the  cat  and  the  fiddle  ! 
Death  only  —  the  Seer  —  can  read  life's  riddle. 


SHELLEY. 

Thy  skylark  emblems  thee  —  her  gushing  song 
Flooding  the  heavens  with  music,  as  away 
She  soars  with  glad  heart  in  the  dawning  day, 

Fanning  the  odorous  air  with  pinion  strong, 
(Which  to  the  chanting  of   the  morning  star 
Keeps  rhythmic  beat,  up-glancing  and  afar  ;) 

Nor,   to  her  wondrous  melody  belong 

Wilder  or  sweeter  notes,  than  from  thy  lyre 
Were  flung  like  jets  of  incandescent  fire, 

To  scathe,  with  its  quick  lightning,  every  wrong. 

Prophet  and  poet  thou  !    divinely  gifted 

W7ith  hate  of   hollow  forms  and  hoary  lies, 
And  creeds  that  wall  about  old  tyrannies ; 

And,  like  the  lark's,  thy  wondrous  song   was  lifted 
To  greet  the  new  day  which  thy  prescient  eye 
Saw,  ere  it  edged  with  light  the  orient  sky, 

Or  sent  its  challenge  to  the  Heavenly  Hills, — 
The  day   when  Peace  shall  all  the  nations  span, 
And  Love  and  Truth  —  twin   angels — dwell  with 
man. 

What  though,  when  battling  with  unnumbered  ills, 


SHELLEY.  17 

Some  blows,  struck  blindly,  missed  their  purposed 

aim, 
Wounding    sweet    Truth  ?      Not    thine    alone    the 
blame, 

But  theirs   who  made  her  courts   the  citadel 
Of   robber-lusts  that  preyed  on  human-kind,  — 
Corrupt,  false  priests,  blind  leaders  of  the  blind, 

Who  paid  to   Heaven  the  sacrifice  of  Hell. 

So  shall  men  bless  thee  for   that  righteous  daring 
Which,  trampling  ancient  Falsehood  in  the  dust, 
Asked  not  "How  old?"    but  only,  "Is  it  just?" 

And   spake  good  words  of   cheer  for  the  despairing 
Who  crouched  beneath  the  crosier  or  the  rod, 
And  proved,  by  love  of  man,  thy  faith  in   God  : 

For  though  thy  Reason,  held  in  Doubt's  constraint, 
Stumbled  and  groped  'mid  shadows  of  the  Night, 
Thy   Love  stood  regnant  on   the  hills  of   Light, 

And  made  thee  peer  of  Prophet  and  of  Saint! 
2 


EXPOSTULATION. 

"  Like  thee,  O  stream  !    to  glide  in  solitude 
Noiselessly  on,  reflecting  sun  or  star, 
Unseen  by  man,  and  from  the  great  world's  jar 

Kept  evermore  aloof — methinks  'twere  good 

To  live  thus  lonely  through  the  silent  lapse 
Of   my  appointed  time."     Not  wisely  said, 
Unthinking  Quietist !     The  brook  hath  sped 

Its  course  for  ages  through  the  narrow  gaps 
Of   rifted  hills  and  o'er  the  reedy  plain, 
Or  'mid  the  eternal  forests,  not  in  vain  : 

The  grass  more  greenly  groweth  on  its  brink, 
And  lovelier  flowers  and  richer  fruits  are  there, 

And  of   its  crystal  waters  myriads  drink, 

That  else  would  faint  beneath  the  torrid  air. 


THE    WEAVER. 

Ceaselessly  the  weaver,  Time, 

Sitting  at  his  mystic  loom, 
Keeps  his  arrowy  shuttle  flying  — 
Every   thread  anears  our  dying  : 
And  with  melancholy  chime, 
Very  low  and   sad  withal, 
Sings  his  solemn  madrigal 

As  he  weaves  our  thread  of  doom. 

"  Mortals  !  "    thus   he  weaving  sings, 
"  Bright  or  dark  the   web  shall  be 
As  ye  will  it;   all   the  tissues 
Blending  in   harmonious  issues, 
Or  discordant  colorings. 
Time  the  shuttle  drives,  but  you 
Give  to  every   thread  its  hue, 
And  elect  your  destiny. 

"  God  bestowed  the  shining  warp  ; 
Fill  it  with  as  bright  a  woofj 
And  the  whole  shall  glow  divinely, 
As  if   wrought  by  angels  finely 


20  THE    WEAVER. 

To   the  music  of   the  harp ; 
And  the  blended  colors  be 
Like  perfected  harmony, 
Keeping  evil  things  aloof. 

"  Envy,  Malice,  Pride,  and  Hate, 
Foulest  progeny  of    Sin, 
Let  not  these  the  weft  entangle 
With  their  blind   and  furious   wrangle, 
Marring  your  diviner  fate; 
But   with  love  and  deeds  of   good 
Be  the  web  throughout  enhued, 
And  the  Perfect  shall  ye  win.*' 

Thus  he  singeth  very  low, 

Sitting  at  his  mystic  loom, 
And  his  shuttle  still  is  flying  — 
Thread  by  thread  anears  our  dying, 
Grows  our  shroud  with  every  throw ; 
And  the  hues  of  Hell  or  Heaven 
To  each  thread  by  us  are  given, 
As  he  weaves  our  web  of   doom. 


FORGIVENESS. 

Better  in  meekness  and  humility 

To  bear  the  hate  and  spite  of   evil  men, 
When  Obloquy  unleashes  from  their  den 
His  hungry  hounds   to   vex  and  worry  thee, 
Than  chafe  thy  soul  with  anger,  or  to  be 

Vengeful  of  wrongs  inflicted.      Gird  around 
Thy  soul   Religion's  meek  philosophy, 

And  with  forgiveness  heal   the  slanderer's  wound  ! 
So  shalt  thou  heap   upon  thine  adversary 

Live     coals     of    fire  —  the     kindlings     of    strong 

Love  — 
Causing  contrition  in  his  breast  to   move ; 
While  thine  own   heart  shall  be  a  sanctuary 
For  holy  thoughts  and  aspirations  high, 
And  pure  affections  which  can  never  die  ! 


AT   NIAGARA. 

Here,  where  great  thoughts  the  spirit  must  oppress, 

And  man  should  feel  his  utter  nothingness, 

Awed  by  the  voice  that  thunders  from  thy  flood, 

Sublimest  cataract !    to  tell  of    God, 

Hushing  our  passions  to  repose,  until 

Adoring  silence  all  the  soul  doth  fill, — 

Even  here,  sad  marvel !   man  can  still  be  mean, 

And  with   the  ribald  oath,  the  jest  obscene, 

Hate's  scowl,  and  Envy's  leer,  and  Pride's  grimace, 

Profane  thy  sanctities,  O  awful  Place  ! 

Yet  wherefore  wonder  ?     If,  where   Ocean  pours 
His  solemn  anthem  to   the  listening  shores  ; 
Where    mountains,    cloud-crowned,    climb    to    heaven 

and  throw 
An  earthly  twilight  over  vales  below  ; 
When  the  strong  sun  floods  all  the  day  with  light ; 
Or,  in  her  queenly  pomp,  the  holy  Night 
Looks  down  serene,  with  myriad  starry  eyes, 
Or,    clothed    with    storms    shakes    terror    from    the 

skies,  — 
If,   in  such  presence,  and  at  such  an  hour 


AT  NIAGARA.  23 

Filled  with  revealings  of  Almighty  power, 
Man  can  be  vile,  the  slave  of   low  desires, 
Consuming  life  in  Passion's  hell-lit  fires, 
And,  all-forgetful  of   the  soul's  high  birth, 
Starve,  and  debase,  and  chain  it  to  the  earth, 
Hope  not  that  here,  where  from  the  precipice 
Niagara  plunges  to  the  dread  abyss, 
With  thunder-anthem  upward  and  afar 
Sent,  till  the  firm  hills  tremble  to  the   jar, 
While  o'er  the  wild  turmoil  the  vapory  air 
Gleams  glorious  with  the  rainbow  quivering  there, 
Hope  not  that  here,  his  heart  will  reverent  see, 
In  the  dread  scene,   God's  might  and  majesty : 
Still  mean  and  groveling,  Passion's  willing  thrall. 
His  sottish  sense  dims   and  belittles  all. 

Not   thus,  O   God  !    not  thus   would   I   behold 

This  vision  of   Thy  glories  manifold! 

I  would  be  better,  nobler,  having  stood 

Thus  face  to  face   with  thy   majestic  flood. 

I  would  be  purer,  holier  from   to-day, 

That  I  have  known  the  baptism  of   its  spray  ! 

And  bear  away,  transfusing  soul  and  sense, 

Its  awful  beauty  and  magnificence  ; 

And  hear,  at  morn  and  night,  on  land  and  sea, 

Its  everlasting  voice  proclaiming  Thee, 

Till  all  my  being  shall  become  divine, 

Aud  all   my  thoughts  shall  brightly  mirror  Thine. 


LIFE. 

Life,  says  the  cynic,  is  a  dusty  road, 

Thorn-paven,  verdureless,  and  deatli  the  goal, 
Where,   tired  of   its  companionship,   the  soul 
Throws  off  its  worthless  clay,  a  weary  load, 
And  —  more  we  know  not ;    though  of  its  abode 
Conjecture  frames  a  thousand  idle  dreams. 
All  vague  alike,  and  vain  :  so  Reason  deems. 
Life,  says  the   Christian,  is  a  gift  bestowed 

By   the  All-Good,  who  bids  us  use  its  hours 
Wisely,  as  still  they  pass  on  rapid  wing, 
And  each  shall  its  peculiar  blessing  bring 

In  peace  of   mind  and  renovated  powers. 
Thus  live,  and   Death  shall  vanquish  Life  in   vain, 
Since  his  brief   triumph  is  thine  endless  gain  ! 


WEEP    NOT    FOR   THE    DEAD. 

O   weep   not  for  the  dead,  whose  life  is  hid 

With   the  dear  Lord  of   life  ;  but  let  your  tears 

Flow  for  the  living,  —  for  the  girt  with   fears 

And  cares  and  sorrows,  wanderers  amid 

Earth's  snares  and  pitfalls,  whom  the  Fates  forbid 
To  rest   from  toil  for  long  laborious  years  ; 
For  whom   no  guiding  star  of   hope  appears 

To  light  the  gloomy  pathways   which  they  thrid. 
But  for  the  holy  dead,   their  rest  is  sure ! 

Trials,  temptations,  pains  with   them  are  o'er. 

Heart-ache,     despair,    they    know,    thank    God  !     no 
more, 
But  taste  a  bliss  all  perfect  and  secure. 

Weep   for  the  living  !    for  between  their  souls 

And  heaven,  how  many   a  turbid   torrent  rolls. 


BEAUTY. 

Beauty  can  never  die.      The  tinted  cheek 
May  lose  its  delicate  color,  and  the  brow 
Be  lined  with  records  of   the  waning  years ; 
The  eye  forget  its  lustre,  and  the  voice 
Flow  forth  no  more  in  music;    Age  may  bow 
The  lithe  elastic  form,  weigh  down  the  step, 
And  sprinkle  thick  the  sunny  locks  with  gray  ; 
Heart-ache,  Disease,  and  Death  may  each  in  turn 
Rack     the    poor    frame    and    thrill    the     quivering 

nerves, 
Till  not  a  line  of   outward  grace  remains,  — 
Yet  not  one  ray  of   that  internal  fire 
Which  is  the  life  of  beauty,  and  its  soul, 
Shall  e'er  be  quenched  or  dimmed !     It  liveth  on, 
The  same  ethereal  essence  ;   chance  nor  change 
Can  pale  its  light,  nor  mar  its  perfectness. 
The  gift  of  God,  eternal  as  Himself, 
It  grows  in  glory  as  its  years  increase. 


TO   MARY    DAWSON. 

Years  have  gone  by  since  last  I  saw  thy  face, 
Since  last  I  heard  thy  low,  sweet,  solemn  voice, 
Whose  very  tones  said  "  Hope,  but  not  rejoice ! " 
Yet  still  my  heart  has  treasured   the  meek  grace 
That  companied  thy   life,  and  made  the  air 
Around  thee  fragrant  with  the  breath  of   prayer. 
And  though   I  know  not  now  tby  dwelling-place, 
Nor  even    may  hope    that    henceforth    thought    of 

thine 
Will  lean  towards  me,  or  encircle  mine, 
I  cannot  if    I   would   (nor  would)   erase 

Thine  image  from  my  soul  ;    but  rather  pray 
That  its  still  beauty  ever  more  and  more 
May  fill  my  being,  till  this  life  is  o'er, 

And   we  shall   meet  in  heaven's  unclouded  day  ! 


THE    LESSON. 

When   Charles    the     Heartless     (not    the    headless) 

reigned, 
And  many  a  wit  his  gift  of   verse  profaned, 
Making  of   song  the  minister  of   crime, 
And  veiling  beauty  with  corruption's  slime  ; 
All,  who  from  king  or  court  would  favor  win, 
Plunged  in  the  whirl  of   fashionable  sin  ; 
For  License  ruled  with   undisputed  sway, 
And  Truth  and  Righteousness  became  a  prey. 

Yet  one,  aloof  from  all  the   Court's   wild  glare, 
The  shadow  resting  on  his  thin  white  hair, 
Blind,  old,  and  poor,  the  butt  of   ridicule 
For  pampered  witlings,  deemed  half    mad,  half  fool, 
As  ruffled  rake  and  wanton  flaunted  by, 
Lived,  with  his  own  grand  thoughts  for  company, 
Asking  no  favor  from  the  Vicious   Great, 
Scorning  alike  their  friendship  and  their  hate. 
A  proud,  brave,  true,  and  downright-honest  man, 
A  friend  of    Cromwell,  and  a  Puritan. 
Blind,    old,    and    poor  !       But    lo  !      those    sightless 
eyes 


THE  LESSON.  29 

Kindled   with  gleams  from  Upper  Paradise, 
Ami  on  his  ear  fell  fragments  of   the  hymn 
Sung  by  archangels  and  by  seraphim, 
What  time  they  bent  above  their  golden  lyres, 
"With  radiant  fingers  flashing  through  the   wires, 
And  star-crowned  hosts  responded  in   accord, 

"  0.  HOLY,  HOLY,  HOLY  IS  THE  LORD  !  " 

With  patient   toil,  translating  Heaven's   sublime 
To   the  dull  languages  of    Earth   and   Time, 
He  still   pursued  his   theme,  and,  day   by   day 
Built   the  strong  verse  no  years  shall  sweep  away  : 
Nor,  anxious,  asked  the   verdict  of    the  schools, 
Nor  feared  the  frowns  of   parasites  and  fools ; 
Content  to   wait   till   Fame,  remorseful  grown, 
For  past  injustice  richly   should   atone, 
And,  stern  avenger  of   an   age's  wrong, 
Crown  him  the  peerless  of   the   Sons  of  song  ! 

The  king's  buffoons  have  laughed  themselves    away  ; 
The  gay  court-wits  and  versers  —  where  are   they  ? 
Who  now  remembers  their  salacious   rhymes, 
Their  amorous  songs,  indecent  as  their  times, 
Play,  ode,  anacreontic,  bagatelle  — 
All   sparkling  with  the  phosphorus  of  Hell  ? 
Haply,  some  fragments,  found  in  dusty   nooks, 
Where   Bibliomania  hides  his  cobwebbed  books, 
Arrest,  at  times,  the  antiquarian's  eye, 


30  THE  LESSON. 

And  win  a  laugh,  soon  stifled  by  a  sigh ; 
Then  back  once  more  to  dust  and  darkness  fall, 
To  feed  the  mice  or  moths  ;    and  this  is  all ! 
The  rest  forgot  (alike  the  gold  and  dross), 
And  the  world  richer,  doubtless,  for  the  loss  ! 

But  the  blind  Poet,  who,  'mid  scoffs  and  jeers, 

Toiled  on,  appealing  to  the  Unborn  Years, 

And  turned,  in  childlike  faith,  his  sightless  eyes 

To  catch  the  gleam  of   far  Eternities, 

And  heard,  like  murmurs  of   some  mighty  sea, 

The  plausive  voice  of   peoples  yet  to  be, 

Swelling  adown  the  corridors  of   Time 

With  crescent  power  and  meanings  more  sublime, 

Still  lives !    for  centuries   brighten  his  renown, 

And  add  new  lustre   to  his  aureate  crown  ; 

Nor  can  Oblivion,  from   the   ward  of    Fame, 

Steal  the  least  ray  that  gilds  our  Milton's  name! 


CHANNING. 

i. 

Not  always  do  the  good  die  earliest ; 

Though  when  their  light  is  taken  from  our  sky 
Too  oft  with  rebel  thought  we  question  why, 

Feeling  that  earth  was  all  too  brightly  blest 

With  their  serenest  radiance  !     To  thy  rest 
Thou  wert  not  bidden  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  thy  young  years,  ere  on  the  scroll  of  Time 

Thy  name  was  placed,  O  champion  of  the  oppressed ! 
But  ampler  space  was  given  thee  to  fill 
With  holy  deeds  wrought  with  a  loving  will, 

And  solemn  utterance  of   great  truths,  which  make 
The  hearts  that  heed  them,  better.     If   regret 
Dwells  in  our  souls,  and  tears  our  eyelids  wet, 

They   wrong  not  thee !   nor  fall  for  thy  dear  sake. 

ii. 
The  living  claim  our  grief,  since  thou,  whose  life 
Chimed  ever  with  the  beautiful  and  true, 
And  shed  o'er  earth  a  Paradisean  hue, 
Bast  vanished  suddenly,  while  yet  the  strife 
Of    Rifdit   with   Wrong  through   all  the  land   is  rife, 


32  CHAN N  IN  G. 

And  strong  hearts  thrill  responsive   to  the  call 
Of   Freedom  to  her  children  !      Thou  didst  fall, 

Not  where   the  clamorous  drum  and  shrieking  fife 
Called  to  the  dreadful  carnival  of    war, 
But  in  a  moral  conflict  nobler  far, 

Wielding   no  weapon  but  the  truth  in  love. 

Woe  !    that  the  fainting  soul  no  more  may  bear, 
When    struggling    with    its    doubts,  thy  words    of 
cheer, 

Born  of   a  faith  whose  eye  is  fixed  above! 

in. 
But    wherefore    mourn?      Those    words    are    living 
yet, 
For    Truth    survives    its    champion !  —  and,  gone 

forth, 
Not  in  vain  mission,  still  shall  bless  the  earth, 
Though  men  and  devils   leagued,  themselves    should 

set 
To  stay  its  onward  course ;  o'er  every  let 
Resistless  shall  it  win  its  glorious  way, 
Till  Earth,  new-taught  its   mandates  to  obey, 
Shakes  off  her  ancient  lies  without  regret! 

Then    shall    thy  name    be    known    as    one   whose 

creed 
Was  "  God  is   love  !  "    proclaimed    in  word  and 
deed  — 


C  BANNING.  33 

Whose    sect  —  a     noble    few  —  "  the     pure      in 

HEART  !  " 

Who    lived,    while    yet    Earth's    lowly    way    thou 

trod, 
A  life  that  rendered  manifest  the   God 
Whom  thou  didst  serve,  and  whose  thou   wast    and 

art! 

1843. 


GIFTED    FOR    GIVING. 

"  Freely  ye  have  received,  freely  give." 

Be  true,  O  poet,  to  your  gift  divine  ! 

And  let  your  heart  go  throbbing  through  your   line. 

Till  it  grows  vital  with  the  life  that  bums 

In  joy  and  grief,  in   faith   and  doubt,  by  turns, 

And  full,  complete  expression  gives  to  these 

In   the  clear  ringing  of   its  cadences  ! 

Pour  your  soul's  passion   through   the  tide  of   song, 

Nor  ask  the  plaudits  of   the   changeful   throng. 

Sing  as  the  bird  sing^,   when  the  morning  beam 

With  gentlest  touch  awakes  it  from  its  dream, 

And  life  and  light,  their  motion  and   their  glow, 

Gush  through   the  song,  with  flow   and  overflow  ; 

Sing  as  the  stream  sings,  winding  through  the   maze 

Of  woods  and  meadows   with  no   thought  of  praise, 

Its  murmurous  music,  or  in   storm   or  calm, 

Blending  its  low,  sweet  notes  with  Nature's  psalm 

Sing  as  the  wind  sings,  when   the  forest  trees 

Are  vocal   with  its   mystic   melodies, 

And  every  leaf   lifts  up  its  tiny  harp 

To  answer  back  in  tones  distinct  and  sharp. 


i 


GIFTED  FOR    GIVING.  35 

Though  purblind   men,  the  devotees  of   greed, 
To  song  or  singer  give  but  little  heed, 
And  the  deaf  multitudes  refuse  to   turn 
From  Mammon's  shrines  diviner  lore  to  learn. 
The  angels,  in  their  starry  homes,   shall  know 
How   true    a  spirit  walks  the  earth   below. 
And,   pausing   in   their  song,   to  list  your  lyre, 
Shall  whisper  through  the  spaces,  ';  Come  up  higher  I" 


THE    POET. 

No  low  ambition  should  profane  his  themes 

Who  talks  with  angels  in  his  nightly  dreams, 

And  breathes  the  air  which  gods  have  made  divine. 

And  treads  the  courts  of   radiant  crystalline  ; 

No  grovelling  passion,  no  debasing  thought, 

In  the  rich  texture  of   his   verse  be  wrought ; 

No  word  to  laud  the  villain's  mean  success, 

Or  celebrate  triumphant  wickedness, 

Though  paeans  ring,  and  peoples,  near  and  far, 

Pay  their  ovations  with  the  loud  huzza ; 

No  meed  of  praise  to   Power  divorced  from   Good, 

Trampling  the  law   of   human   brotherhood  ; 

Nor  smooth  apologies  in  daintiest  rhyme 

For  titled  scoundrels  and  for  gilded  crime, 

Since  all  the  gold   and   honors  of  the  earth 

From  his  clear  eye  can  hide  not   Honor's  dearth. 

Of   Nature's  royal  priesthood,  he  should  be 
Pure  as  her  fountains,  as  her  rivers  free, 
Genial  as  light,  beneficent  as  air, 
Loyal  to  Truth  and   Duty  everywhere  ; 
Scorning  all  baseness,  and  in  virtue  strong, 


THE  POET.  37 

"Waging  unceasing  warfare  with  the  wrong; 
Thus  keeping  still,  amid   the  false  and  mean, 
The   pure,  white  vesture  of   his  manhood  clean, 
And    more    than    fame,  and    more    than    heaped- up 

gold, 
Prizing  the  honor  he  hath  never  sold. 

When   Power,   grown  insolent,  with  iron  heel 
Treads  down  the  weak,  unheeding  their  appeal, 
Though   voiced  in  anguish,  and  with   suppliant   cries, 
Whose   mournful  cadence  shivers  to  the  skies, 
Then   should  his  voice,  untremulous  and  clear, 
Speak  the  bold  words  that  Freedom  loves  to  hear,  — 
Speak  with  a  tone  as  passionless  as   Fate 
The  prophet-curse  that  Time  shall  vindicate, 
And  give  the  tyrant's  deeds,  the  tyrant's  name, 
To  the  damnation  of   remorseless   Fame. 


THE    VISIONARY. 

Not  his  the  right  to  waste  life's  golden  hours 
In   idle  dreaming  on   his  couch  of    flowers, 
Whose  faint,  sweet  odors  all  his  senses  lull. 
Till  they  seem  drunken   with   the  beautiful  ; 
And  in  voluptuous  languor  day  on  day, 
Unsanclified  by  duty,  melts  away. 

What  time  he  listens   to  the  song  of  June 

Rippling  the  greenery  with  its  breezy   tune, 

Or,   thridding  the  dim   woods,  delighted   sees 

The  golden   sunshine  shimmering  through  the  trees, 

Making,  as   swing  the  lithe  boughs   to  and  fro, 

Weird,  shifting  pictures  on   the  ground  below, 

And  half   believes  he  hears  the  musical  beat 

On   the  soft  grass  of   myriad  tiny  feet, 

As  through  the  dance  the  fairy  people  whirl,  — 

Each   tiny   waltzer   with   his  dizzy   girl  — 

While  a  strange  rapture  permeates   and  thrills 

His  every  sense,  and  all  his  spirit  fills,  — 

From   such  communion   let  him  carry   home 

Strength  for  the  battles  that  are  yet   to  come, 

And  not  forget  that  life's  full   meanings,  sweep 


THE    VISIONARY.  39 

A  wider  circle  and  profounder  deep  ; 

That   hopes  may   ripen   into  nobler  acts, 

And  glorious  dreams  become  more  glorious  facts; 

That   the   world's  beauty  is  divinely  used 

When   with   our  central  being  interfused, 

And  breathed  abroad  in   love  and  faith  and  zeal, 

Whose  triple  forces  blend  for  human    weal  ; 

That,   as   the   landscape,   when  the  pall   of    Night 

Furls  from  the  hills,  so,  broader   and   more   bright 

Our   life  must  grow,   when   kindled   by   the  sun 

That  beams   in  blessings  upon  duty  done. 


A    RHYME    OF    PETER BORO. 

In  Peterboro  lived  a  man, 

Not  very  long  ago, 
Whose  name,  if   I  remember  right, 

Was  Smith,  —  not  John,  nor  Joe, 
But  Gerrit ;  'tis  quite  possible 

You've  heard  of   him  also. 

This   Gerrit  Smith  had  strange  ideas 

He  never  learnt  at  school : 
For  instance,  that  a  man,  though   black, 

Was  better  than  a  mule  ; 
And  treating  folks  like  cattle,  was 

Against  the  golden  rule ; 

That  selling  babies  from  the  arms 

Of  mothers,  was  a  sin, 
Which  soon  or  late,  as  sure  as  fate, 

Its  punishment  would  win ; 
Or  else  the  Bible  told  a  lie, 

And   wasn't  worth  a  pin. 


A  RHYME   OF  PETERBORO.  41 

But  stranger  things  this   Gerrit  Smith 
Went  preaching  day  and  night : 

That  love  was  more  than  sacraments, 
That  right  was   more   than  might, 

And   evil  in  the  darkness   wrought 
Would  be  revealed  in  light. 


That  not  the  fashionable  garb, 

And  not  the  bit  of  earth, 
Or  small  or  large,  he  claimed  as  his, 

Not  learning,  nor  its  dearth, 
Was  the  true  measure  of  a  man, 

But  inward,  moral  worth. 

And  that,  in  spite  of  varying  creeds 
Since  first  the   world  began, 

Religion  meant  that  every  one 
Should  love  his  fellow  man, 

And  keep  unspotted  from  the  world, 
Yet  bless  it  all  he  can. 

And  so  he  pleaded  for  the  slave, 
And  strove  to  set  him  free  ; 

And  battled  with   the  wrong  that  makes 
The  drunkard's  misery ; 

And  good  to  all,  and  true  to   all 
He  strove  to  do  and  be. 


42  A  RHYME   OF  PETERBORO. 

Small  reverence  had  he  for  forms, 
And  less  he  thought  of   creeds 

Than   that  religion  undefiled 
That  lives  in  loving  deeds, 

And  preaches  to  a  sinful  world 
By  helping  all  its  needs. 

So  folks  they  called  him  heretic, 

Fanatic,  infidel, 
And   various  other  pretty  names, 

Including  "  child  of    hell  ;  " 
But  what  they  meant  by  compliments 

Like   these,  I  cannot  tell. 

I   only  know,  that  in  his  home 

The   very  atmosphere 
Was  fragrant  with  the  soul  of  love 

That  casteth  out  all  fear, 
As  if  the  heaven  had  stooped  to  earth, 

Or  earth   to  heaven   was  near. 

I  only  know,  that  from   his  hand 
He  scattered  more  than  gold 

Among  the   wretched  and  the  poor 
In  blessings  manifold ; 

Nor  half  his  helpful  ministry 
In   words  can   e'er  be  told. 


THE    ANGEL    OF    THE    HOME. 


I   can  believe  that   spirit-forms  divine, 

Stand  ever  close  to  thine  : 
That,  not  infrequent  to  thine  eye  is  given 

Glimpses  and  gleams  of   heaven  ; 
And  falls  seraphic  music  from  the  spheres 

Upon   thy  listening  ears, 
While   God's  own   peace,  with  its  serene  repose, 

Through  all   thy  being  flows. 

That   angels  walked  the  earth  in   days  of   yore 

A   fable  seems  no  more : 
I  can   believe  that  to   the   Patriarch's   tent 

In   shining  garb   they   went. 
Bearing  a  blessing  to  his  bed  and  board 

From   the  dear,  loving   Lord, 
And  left,   returning  to   their   native  sky, 

A  light   that  cannot  die. 

For  all  that  in   such   myths  seems  loveliest 
U   in   thy   life  expressed  ! 


44  THE  ANGEL    OF   THE  HOME. 

The  starry  souls  that  walk  the  Hills  of    Li^lit. 

Than  thine  are  not  more  white ; 
Nor  is  their  angel-ministry  than  thine 

More  love-fraught  and  divine, 
As  he  can  tell  who  names  in  one  word,  "  Wife  !  " 

The  Angel  of  his  life  ! 

ii. 

To   thee   I  can   give  nothing  :   my  poor  verse 
Falters  to  silence   when  it  would  rehearse 

Thy  praises,  and  my  reverence  for  thee. 
I  can  compel  no  words   that  may  express 
My  loving  sense  of  all  thy  loveliness, 

And  the  large  tender  soul  I  therein  see. 
If   angels  love  thee,  'tis  but  sisterly  — 
They    know    their    kin ;    and    even    our     half-sealed 

eyes 
Can  see  that  effluence  of  the  upper  skies 
That  robes  thy  spirit  with  its  purity. 

Enough  for  me,  that  I   have  breathed  the  air 
Of  the  sweet  home  that  is  thy  fitting  shrine, 
And  caught  new  glimpses  of   the  life  divine 

In  thy  dear  life,    that  makes   that  home  so  fair. 


TO    EMMA    WILLARD, 

ON    HER    EIGHTIETH    BIRTH-DAY. 


Through  fourscore    years    thy  stream    of    life    hath 
run, 

Not  with   vain  flow ;  for  in  its  course  are   seen 

Fields     filled    with     harvests,    sand-wastes    clothed 
with  green, 
The  strength  and  beauty  of   thy  benison  ! 
For  noble   was   thy   work,  and   nobly   done  ; 

Not  for  mean  praise,  nor  yet  for  meaner  pelf. 

But  with  full  consecration  of    thyself 
To  the  great  task  in  love  and  faith  begun. 

Now  thou  art  blessed ;    for  lo  !    on   every   side 
Thy  life's  rich  fruits  in  other  lives  appear, 
Its  bounteous  largess  growing  year  by  year, 

And  year  by  year  its  blessings  multiplied. 
So   shalt  thou  live,   while  ages  onward    roll, 
In  grand   impulses  from   thy  own  great  soul. 


46  TO  EMMA    WILLARD. 


II. 

As  the  shades  lengthen,  may  the  sunset  sky 

Assume  for  thee  its  purest,  tenderest  light," 

A  prelude  of   that  glory  infinite 
In   which  thy  spirit  shall   bathe  immortally 
When  earthly  scenes  have  faded  from  thine  eye. 

God's  arms  enfold  thee  !    and  in   tranquil  rest, 

After  long  toil,  sink  sweetly  on   His  breast, 
And  know   that  His  dear  children  cannot  die ; 

But,  gently  lapsing  to  an  ampler  life 
Through  the  brief   sleep  we  misname  death,   awake 
In   His  most  glorious  likeness,  for  whose  sake 

They    come,    crowned    victors    from    their    mortal 
strife, 
And  know  thenceforth   the   joys  that  never  cease. 
The  endless  triumph,  and  the  perfect  peace. 

1867. 


BENEDICITE.     (S.    C.    W.) 

A  foxd   wife,  nested  in   a  happy  home 

Which    Nature,    Art,    and     Love    make    fair     and 

bright, 
Herself  of   its  delights   the  chief   delight, 
To   whose  weird  bidding  cunning  spirits  come 
To  do  her   will,  —  my  heart  beholds  in  her 
Beauty's  sweet  priestess  and  interpreter  ; 
Yet  not  the  less  a   woman  warm   and  true, 
And   faithful  in  all   household   works  and   way-  : 
So  to  my  verse   I   give  her  name  and  praise, 
And  link   that  name   with  blessings  ever  new. 
What  though  between   her  paradise  and  me 
May   stretch  the  spaces  of  a  continent  ! 
Still,  over  all,  by  love  inspired   and   sent, 
Shall   spring  to  her  my  Benedicite. 


the;  rhyme  of  the  cable. 

Down  in  the  dark,  where  the  sluggish  sea 
Is  still  as  death,  save  when  the  beats 
Of   the  great  tide-pulse  through  its  far  retreats 

Are  felt,  like  thrills  from  eternity  — 

Over  the  floor  which  the  waves  have  pressed 
To  hardest  rock ;    where  never  a  breeze 

From  the  storms  above  disturbs  the  rest 

Of   the  sleepers  there,  whose  bones  lie  hid 

In  depths  where  the  sun  ne'er  peered,  amid 
The   wrecks  of   a  thousand  argosies  — 

Stretches,  for  leagues  and  leagues,  the  Wire, 

A  hidden  path  for  a   Child  of  Fire 

Over  its  silent  spaces  sent, 

Swifter  than  Ariel  ever  went, 

From  continent  to  continent ! 

In  and  out,  among  heaps  of   gold, 

And  pearls  as  fair  as  the  morning-rise 

When  the  dawn's  soft  flush  steals  over  the  skies. 

'Mid  rubies  and  diamonds  and  all  rare  gems 

That  have  blazed  in  kingly  diadems  — 


THE  RHYME   OF   THE   CABLE.  49 

In   and  out,  and  among  the  stems 

Of   the  beautiful  sea-anemones, 
And  where  the  groves  of   the  Algoe  stand,  . 

And  through  the  coral  palaces, 
It   winds  its  way,  like  a  huge  snake,  rolled 
Slowly   along  from  each  volumed  fold  — 
Slowly  along,  till  the  sea  is  spanned 
From  shore  to  shore,  and  the  rites  are  said 
By  which  the  lands  are  forever  wed  ! 

Deep  in  the  bed  of  the  sea  it  lies  — 

That  wondrous  way  —  and  the  fire  leaps  through 
With   the  sijm  of   the  marriage  sanctities 

That  bind  the  Old  World  to  the  New! 
A  curse  on  his   heart  and  a  curse  on  his  brain 
Who  dares  those  sanctities  profane, 
And  the  married  worlds  again  make  twain  ! 

Let  the  waves  peal  out  their  solemn  chime, 
And  the  free   wild  winds  the  strain  prolong  ; 
While  the  nations  greet  with  shout  and  song 

This  grandest  miracle  of   Time ! 

O,  crowning  wonder  of   the  earth  ! 
O.  voice  that  calls  an  era  forth  ! 

O,  angel  of   the  Apocalypse ! 
Whose  awful  form  is  seen  to  stand, 
One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  land. 
4 


50  THE  RHYME   OF  THE   CABLE. 

Proclaiming  with  thy  fire-touched  lips 
This  glorious  truth,  from  shore  to  shore 
Heard    in    one    pulse-beat,    "  Time    shall    be    no 
moee ! " 


A    REMINISCENCE. 

We  stood  beneath  a  night  of  June,  — 

My  cousin  Kate  and  I,  — 
And  over  us  the  full-orbed  moon 

Stood  regnant  in  the  sky ; 
The   whippoorwill  his  cheery  tune 

Sang  from   the  brake  hard  by. 

From   folded  flowers  a  breath   of   balm 

Stole  out  upon   the  air ; 
She  said,  u  So  day's  exulting  psalm 

Is  followed  by  a  prayer  !  " 
I   thought  —  "  The   night   is   wondrous  calm, 

And   Kate  is   wondrous   fair ! " 

The  moonbeams  kissed   her  lifted  brow, 
The  zephyrs  kissed  her  cheek, 

And    I  —  but    Kate   may   tell  you  how 
The   thing  I  must  not   speak 

Sent  blushes  to  her  face,   as  now, 
To  play  at  hide-and-seek ! 


ANNIE    BELL. 


Once,  upon  a  summer  morning 

(Memory  keeps  the  records  well), 
Sat  a  lovely  girl  beside  me  — 
Annie  Bell. 

Sixteen  Junes  of  song  and  sunshine, 

Flower   and  breeze,  her  life  could  tell ; 
All,  that  morning,  seemed  to  meet  in 
Annie  Bell. 

O,  her  heart  was  large  for  loving ! 
Yet  no  evil  thought  might  dwell 
In  that  temple  pure  and  holy, 
Annie  Bell. 

Kin  she  seemed  to  all  that's  fairest, 

And  to  all   that's  best  as  well, 
In  the  glory  of    her  girlhood, 
Annie  Bell. 


ANNIE  BELL.  53 

Then,  as  thus  I  sat  beside  her, 

Unaware,  a  blessing  fell 
From  my  heart  upon  the  maiden, 
Annie  Bell. 

Soft  as  Ocean's  murmured  echoes 

In  the  convoluted  shell, 
Spake  I,  blessing  thus  the  gentle 
Annie  Bell. 

ii. 

"  Maiden  !    may  the  loving  Father, 
Who  in  mercy  doth  excel, 
Guide  thee  ever,  guard  thee  ever, 
Annie  Bell. 

"  Free  from  guile  and  free  from  sorrow, 
Free  from  every  passion  fell, 
Keep  thy  soul's  unsullied  whiteness, 
Annie  Bell. 

"  Hating  wrong  and  scorning  folly, 
Every  evil  thing  repel : 
So  with  thee  shall  walk  the  angels, 
Annie  Bell. 

"  O,  companioned  so  divinely, 

Shall  thy  life,  with  rhythmic  swell 


54  ANNIE  BELL. 

Flow  to  chimes  of   angel-music, 
Annie   Bell : 

"  Love,   with  sweetest  ministrations, 
In  thy  home  forever  dwell, 
Filling  it  with  airs  of  heaven, 
Annie  Bell : 

"  Till,  thy  earthly  mission  ended, 

Bliss,  beyond  what  verse  can   tell, 
Be  thy  heritage  forever, 

Annie   Bell." 

III. 

Since  that  lovely  summer  morning 

Years  have  passed  ;    and  who  can  tell 
All  the  changes  they  have  brought  thee, 
Annie  Bell  ? 

Thou  to  me  didst  seem  a  vision 

Which  a  moment  might  dispel ; 
But  its  glory  lingers  with  me, 
Annie  Bell. 

Ever,   since  that  summer  morning, 
In  my  memory  thou  dost  dwell, 
Sanctified  by  sweet  affections, 
Annie  Bell. 


ANNIE  BELL.  55 

Never,  since  that  summer  morning, 

Which  thy   presence,  like  a  spell, 
Seemed  to  hallow,  have  I  seen  thee, 
Annie  Bell. 

Nor  hath  heard  mine  ear  the  music 

Of  the  name  I  love  so   well, 
Save   when   to  myself   I  murmur, 
"Annie  Bell!" 

But  in  dreams  I  oft  behold   thee, 

Lovelier  than   my  rhyme  can   tell, 
Ripened  to   a  perfect  woman, 

Annie  Bell : 

"With   the  eyes  which  brimmed  with   laughter 

As   their  lashes  rose  and   fell, 
Filled  with  deeper,  holier  meanings. 
Annie   Bell : 

And   thy   voice  to  richer  music 

Wedded,  such  as  thoughts  compel 
When   they   seem  like  spirit-echoes, 
Annie   Bell  : 

Sadder  —  for  the  gift  of  wisdom 
Since,  as  ere  our  parents  fell, 
Still  is   found  in   sorrow's   umbra. 
Annie   Bell  : 


56  ANNIE  BELL. 

But  with  light  serene  and  saintly 

(In  such  light  do  angels  dwell), 
Like  an  aureole  around  thee, 
Annie  Bell. 

IV. 

Sometimes,  with  a  sudden  anguish, 
Hear  I,  in  my  dreams,  a  knell 
Tolling  through  the  dreary  chamber, 
"Annie  Bell!" 

"  She  is  dead  !  "  —  the  iron  clangor, 
Echoed  by  my  thought  too  well, 
Still  sounds  on,  with  dreadful  import  ■ 
"Annie  Bell!" 

Icy  fingers  seem  to  clutch  me  ; 

Mocking  fiends,  with  purpose  fell, 
Shriek,  responsive  to  that  knolling, 
"Annie   Bell!" 

What  can  mean  these  sad  monitions  ? 

Neither  hope  nor  fear  can  tell  : 
But  the  loving  Father  keeps  thee, 
Annie  Bell. 

If  on  earth  thy  footsteps  linger, 
Faith,  rejoicing,  says  "  'Tis  well !  " 


ASNIE  BELL.  Oi 

For  the  loving  Father  keeps  thee, 
Annie  Bell. 

If   thou  walkest  with  the  angels 

Through  the  groves  of   asphodel, 
Still  the  loving  Father  keeps   thee, 
Annie  Bell. 

So,  in  heaven,  some   summer  morning 

(If   I  fight  the  good  fight   well), 
I  shall  meet   thee,  I  shall  greet  thee, 
Annie  Bell. 


ANSWERED. 

"  And  day  by  day  we  ask  of  God,  dear  child, 
That  He  who  gave  may  keep  thee  undefined  ! " 

So    hath    He    kept    thee !     And,    lest    earth    should 
dim 
Or  mar   the  virgin  brightness  of   thy  soul, 
Turning  it  backward  from  its  heavenly  goal, 

He  early  summoned   thee  to  dwell  with   Him, 

Where  thou  canst  hear,  from  harps  of   seraphim, 
The  hallelujahs  that  thou  lovedst  when  sung 
In  earth's  dull  dialect  by  human  tongue, 

And  angel  anthems,  whose  divine  notes  swim 
On  heaven's  serener  air  !     Our  full  hearts  swell 
With  grief   too  bitter  for  our  words  to   tell ; 

And  yet,  amid  our  sobs,  we  would  not  dare 
Arraign   His  goodness  who  recalled  to  heaven 
The  treasure  lent  —  alas  !    we  deemed  it  given  ! 

In  love  He  hears,  in  wisdom  answers  prayer. 


PIERPONT. 

Erect  in   form,  as  one  whose  spirit  free 

Ne'er  bent  to  any,  less   than   God,   the   knee  — 

Crowned  with  the  glory  of   his  silver  hair, 

A  nobler  diadem   than  monarchs   wear  — 

Behold  the   Bard,  whose  smoothly  flowing  line 

Rings  with   the  cadenced  "  Airs  of    Palestine  !  " 

Whether  in  psalms  he  chants  Jehovah's  praise, 

Or  to  old  Freedom  consecrates  his  lays, 

Or  mourns  the  child,  whose  "  bright  sunshiny  head  " 

Too  soon   was  pillowed  with  the  silent  dead, 

Or  strives,  of   self   forgetful,   to  unbind 

The  chains  that  shackle   the  inebriate's  mind, 

Or,   with  bold  words   whose  scath   is  like  a  ban, 

Condemns  the  tramplers  of   his  fellow-man, 

Or  laughs   to  shame   the  idiot  Pretense, 

That  from  the  public  walks  crowds  common  sense  — 

In  every  phase  his  varied  verse  may  wear, 

In  every   change  of   custom,  here  or  there, 

To  Truth,  to    Right,   to  Duty  ever  leal 

He   keeps,    like  Abdiel,   his  love,  his   zeal  ; 

Himself    that   wonder,  since   the   world  began, 

A  self-reliant,  downright  honest  man. 


60  PIERPONT. 

Hail,  true  philanthropist !      Hail,  honored  bard  ! 
No  soul  like  thine  shall  miss  the  great  reward. 
True  to  thy  lofty  aim,  nor  hopes  nor  fears 
Turned  thee  aside  through  all  the  weary  years, 
Nor  damped  the  ardor  of  that  holy  zeal 
Which   through  all   trials  sought  thy  neighbor's  weal, 
Nor  dimmed  the  faith  that  ever  from  above 
Drew  strength  and  patience  for  thy  work  of   love. 

Poet  and  prophet !    o'er  whose  classic  head 

Their  frosts  and  honors  threescore  years  have  shed, 

Long  may  we   welcome,  from  that  harp  of   thine, 

Airs  not  less  sweet  than  those  of   Palestine  ! 

Long  may  our  souls,  with  kindred  ardor  thrill 

As    Warren    speaks,    through    thee,    from     Bunker's 

Hill ! 
Long,  at  the  antics  of   thy  "  Golden   Calf " 
Laugh  may  we,  and  grow  wiser  as  we  laugh  : 
And  though,  at  length,  from  circles  such  as  this, 
Thy  manly  form  and  full  rich  voice  we  miss, 
And  tremulous  lips,  in  broken  accents  say, 
"  Woe  !    for  the  strength  and  glory  passed  away  ! " 
Still  shall  thy  memory,  like  a  sunbeam,  dart 
Its  frequent  brightness  o'er  the  sorrowing  heart ; 
Still  from  thy  kindling  words  shall  courage  flow 
To  those  who   strike  for  periled  Right  a  blow  ; 
Still  to  the  sad  inebriate  whisper  hope, 
As  his  weak  hands  for  life's  lost  treasures  grope ; 


P1ERP0NT.  61 

Still  on  the  billowy  anthem  lift  the  soul 
While   waves  of   music  from  the  organ  roll ; 
And  still,  where'er  thy  honest  verse  is  read, 
Thy    praise     shall    be  —  "  We     cannot    make     him 
dead  !  " 


A   PORTRAIT. 

"  Once    on     a    time "  —  'twas    ten    years    since,  or 

more  — 
I  met  a  man  who   measured  six   feet  four  : 
Broad   were  his  shoulders,  ample   was  his  chest, 
Compact  his   frame,  his  muscles  of   the  best. 
No  sallow   hue  invaded  brow  or  cheek ; 
No  morbid  fancies   through  his  eyes  did   speak,  — 
Those  clear    gray    eyes,    in  which    good    sense    and 

mirth 
Mingled  their  rays  and  shone  benignly  forth,  — 
That  rounded  cheek,  which  looked  so  rosy  fair, 
And   said  dyspepsia  found  no  quarters   there. 
Genial   he   was,  and  many  a  funny   quip 
Dropped,  though  he  scarcely  knew  it,  from   his  lip : 
A  scholar   too,  in  erudition  skilled, 
But  not   with  learning's  useless  lumber  filled ; 
Withal  a  poet  —  not  a  jack-at-pinch, 
But  a  true   son  of   Thalia  every  inch, 
And  his  rhymed  lessons,  draped   in  comic  guise, 
Proved  that  a  genuine   joker  may  be  wise. 
Ten  years  have  passed  since  I  beheld  his  face, 
But  still,  from   week  to   week,  I  see  the  trace 


A  PORTRAIT.  63 

Of  that  shrewd  old-time   humor  from   his  pen, 
Dropped  as   a  proof  that   still  he   walks   with   men ; 
And  still,  I   trust,   with  good    thoughts   manifold 
Keeps  his  big  heart  from  ever  growing  old, 
And  still   with  fancies  quaint  beguiles  our  pain, 
Makes  a  clean  sweep  of   cobwebs  from  our   brain. 
And  lets  the  sunlight  into   nooks  as  dark 
As   the  sub-cellar  of  old  Noah's  ark, 
Till  gloom   itself   is   tinged   witli  golden  light, 
And  duns  and  dolors  are  forgotten  quite. 

Bard,  wit,  philosopher  is  he,  in  one  — 

A  pyrotechnic  magazine  of   fun, 

"Whence     jokes     go     whizzing,     like     those     splendid 

lights 
That  set  ablaze  our   Fourth-o'-July  nights ; 
Yet,  as  the  stars  shine   through   that  luminous    haze. 
So  through  his   jests  a  keen-rayed  wisdom  plays, 
Whose  beams  are  blent   with   wit's  auroral  glow 
To  chasten  mirth  and  check  its  overflow, 
But   not   too   much  ;    if    wisdom   grow   au3tere> 
Wit   tempers   all   with   flashes   bright   and   clear  ; 
And   so  we  laugh  —  reflect — then   laugh — and   then 
Resolve   that   henceforth   we'll  be   wiser  men. 

Not  by  didactic  dullness,  dread   to  hear, 
Nor  ghostly   counsels  droning  on   our  ear  — 


64  A  PORTRAIT. 

Not  by  the  manes  of  a  mummied  "  Joe  " 

Long  since  discarded  by   the  fools  below, 

Does  he  beguile  us  to  forget  the  aches 

That  follow  peccadilloes  and  mistakes, 

But  gently  lures  us,  in  a  quiet  way, 

From  crooked  paths  that  lead  our  feet  astray  ; 

And   with  a  clever  song  or   sprightly   jest 

Shows  us  that  virtue's  courses   are  the  best. 

Through  fact  and  fable,  epigram  and  pun, 

His  mirthful  spirit  overflows  in   fun, 

And  many  a  hoary  humbug  gets  a  hit 

From  the  swift  arrows  of   his  trenchant  wit  — 

A  wit  as  keen  as  are  the  winds  that  blow 

From  old  Katahdin,  helmeted  with  snow, 

Yet  bright  and  sparkling  as  the  living  rills 

That   Spring  sends  sparkling  from  his  native  hills, 

And  genial  as   the  light  that  morning  throws 

Across  the  earth  to  wake  it  from  repose  ! 

For  atrabiliary   fancies   that  afflict 

At  times  both  bachelor  and  Benedict, 

And  make  the   world  look  cheerless  as  a  pew 

In  a  cold  church  with  not  a  lass  in  view  — 

For  minor  fiends  that  give  an  azure  tint 

To  life,  its  prospects,  earth,  and  all   that's  in't, 

Till  Job  himself   with  honest  faith  might  swear 

Nature  a  cheat  and  all  her  works  unfair  — 


A   PORTRAIT.  65 

In  short,  for  every   hypochondriac  ill 
That   tortures   more   than   sicknesses   which   kill, 
Draws  down   the  mouth  still   lower  and    more   low, 
As,  at  each  corner,   tugged  some  imp  of   woe, 
And  o'er  the  added  longitude  of   phiz 
Throws   the  despair  of   fifty   tragedies, — 
For  these,  and  more,  that  multitudes  endure, 
Our  "  Godfrey's   Cordial  "  is   a  sovereign  cure  ! 

O,  poet-teacher  !    whose   mellifluous  rhymes 

Make  smooth  our  onward  "  Progress  "  through  •'  The 

Times," 
Cheering  our  way  with  mirth-provoking  tale 
In  life's  swift   journey,  "  Riding  on   the   Rail  "  — 
O,  genial  leader  !    on   whose  banneret 
u  Bide  si  sapis  "  is  the  motto  set, 
Waging  exterminating  war   with   shams 
Of   every    name,   from  flunkeys  up   to   flams  — 
O,  mirthful   moralist !    whose  "  Miss   McBride," 
By  thee   commissioned,  shames  our  foolish   pride, 
While,  were  it  even  the  marrow  of   our  bones, 
Our  vanity    would   go    with    '*  Captain   Jones," 
The  "  luckless,   wigless,  loveless  lover,"   who 
Lost   his  dear  scalp,   \mr-sue-d  by  su-'mg  "  Sue "  — 
Long    may    thy   mingled   wit   and    wisdom    flow 
Through    the   smooth   verse   that  sets   us   all   aglow  ; 
Long   may   the   fates    that   rule   this   lower   sphere 
Preserve   thy   spirits  and  defer   thy   bier. 


66  a  Portrait. 

And,  should  thy  humor  ever  seem  to  halt, 
Bring  new  supplies  —  whole  sacks  —  of    Attic  salt ; 
And,  gentle  Parcag !    while  your  hands  are  in, 
Forget  your  scissors,  and  keep  on   to  spin. 


WE    ARE    SCATTERED. 

We  are  scattered  —  we  are  scattered, 

Though  a  jolly  band   were  we  ! 
Some  sleep  beneath  the  grave-sod, 

And  some  are  o'er  the  sea  ; 
And  Time  hath  wrought  his  changes 

On  the  few  who  yet  remain  ; 
The  joyous  band  that  once  we  were 

We  cannot  be  again ! 

We  are  scattered  —  we  are  scattered  ! 

Upon   the  village  green, 
Where   we  played  in  boyish  recklessness, 

How  few   of   us  are  seen  ! 
And   the   hearts  that  beat  so  lightly 

In  the  joyousness  of   youth  — 
Some  are  crumbled  in   the  sepulchre, 

And  some  have  lost  their  truth. 

The  beautiful  —  the  beautiful 

Are  faded  from  our  track  ! 
We   miss  them  and  we  mourn  them, 

But  we  cannot  lure  them  back  ; 


08  WE  ARE  SCATTERED. 

For  an  iron  sleep  hath  bound  them 
In  its  passionless  embrace  ; 

We  may  weep,  but  cannot  win  them 
From  their  dreary  resting-place. 

And   mournfully  —  how  mournfully 

The  memory  doth  gaze 
Upon  the  rainbow  loveliness 

Of    childhood's   happy  days  ! 
The  sparkling  eye,  the  rosy  cheek, 

The  smile  of   dewy  lips, 
Have  passed  away,  yet  left  a   light 

Which  time  cannot  eclipse. 

We  are  scattered,  —  we  are  scattered  ! 

But  we  all  shall  meet  again, 
In  a  brighter  and  a  purer  land 

Beyond  the  reach  of  pain  ; 
Where  the  sorrows  of   this  lower  world 

Can  never  dim  the  eye, 
And  the  joys  of   immortality 

Will  neither  fade  nor  die. 


VOICES  OF  THE  VEAES. 


THE    OLD    AND    THE    NEW. 

I   waited   for  the  midnight,   when   the  knell 

Of    the    Old    Year    should    sound  —  or    seem     to 

sound  — 
Followed  by  mellow  peals  that  greet  the   New  ; 
For  the  sweet  singers  of    the   world  have  made 
This   myth  familiar  as   the  melodies 
That,   by  our  mothers  sung,  soothed   oft   to   sleep 
The  busy  brain  of  childhood.     In   my  palm 
Rested  my  cheek,  as  drowsily  I  read 
The   wondrous  story  of    "  Aurora  Leigh," 
Its  subtle  fancies   mingling  with  the  thoughts 
That   were   half    dreams  and  half    realities, 
Till  all   were   lost   in   vague  unconsciousness. 

A  moment  passed  ;   when,  suddenly,  the  stroke 

Of    midnight   pulsed   upon    the   listening  air. 

And   a    weird   voir*-,    -ad    a-    tin;    moaning 

With   echoes  numberless   a-   lapsing   waves, 

Filled   ;dl   the  dark   with   '-The  Old   Year  is  dead!" 


70  THE    OLD  AND    THE  NEW. 

Then,  in  an  instant,  I  became  aware 
Of  a  soft  light,  such  as  a  full-orbed  moon 
Shining  through  pictured  oriels  might  make, 
And  it  grew  near  and  broadened,  till  the  room 
Was  filled   with  rosy  lustre  — I  not  of  dawn, 
For  midnight  still  maintained  its  sovereignty  ; 
And  gleeful  sounds,  half   laughter  and  half  song, 
Came  floating  to  me  on  that  wave  of  light. 
They  seemed  the  voices  of   all  happy  things 
Exulting  in  young  life,  clear-toned  with   joy, 
And  rounded  to  sweet  rhythm  by  faith  and  love, 
And  still  their  burden  was,  "  Rejoice !   rejoice  !  " 

And  then  the  hills  took  up  the  glad  refrain, 
And  tossed  it,  each  to  each,  and  to  the  vales 
That  clasp  their  feet  and  fatten  from  their  spoils, 
And  to  the  rivers  hurrying  to  the  sea, 
And  to  the  broad  savannas,  till  it  seemed 
The  air  was  full  of  voices  jubilant 
Shouting,  "  Rejoice  !    rejoice !  " 


So  I  looked  up, 
And  lo  !    that  wondrous  light  that  filled  my   room, 
Seemed  less  a  light  than  a  translucent  mist, 
That  stirred,  and  waved,   and  rolled  upon  itself, 
And  in,  and  in,  as  if   a  sentient  soul 
Fashioned  its  convolutions,  till  at  length, 
With  gradual  change,   they  took  a  human  shape, 


THE   OLD  AND   THE  NEW.  71 

Which  stood  before  me  like  a  blooming  youth, 
Perfect  in  limb  and  regal  in  his  look, 
And  radiant  in  beauty.     From  his    face 
Shone  benedictions,  and  his  hands  were  filled 
With  gifts  unnumbered  for  his  worshippers. 
Hopes,  loves,  and  joys,  on  gossamery  wings, 
Hovered  around  him,  making  all  the  air 
Rose-hued  and  odorous  and  most  musical ; 
While  from  their  lips,  in  rippling  undertone, 
Flowed      snatches     of     sweet    song,    and     rhythmic 

chants, 
And  gratulations.     Then  said   I,  "  They  best 
Can  greet  the  New  Year's  coming  (for  my  soul 
Knew  that  bright  visitant)   who  best  have  kept 
Faith  with  the  Old,  and  freighted  its  swift  hours 
With  their  great  thoughts  and  godlike  purposes 
Translated  nobly  into  noble  deeds ! 
The  good  man  stands  advanced  one  golden  step 
On  the  bright  ladder  that  conducts  to  heaven ! 
The  wronged  stands  nearer  to  his  sure  redress ! 
The  bondman  to  the  boon  for  which  he  pines  ! 
The  o'erwearied  toiler  to  his   wished-for  rest ! 
The   Christian  hero  to  his  victory  ! 
Therefore,  let  these  rejoice  ! " 

"  Let  all  rejoice," 
Said   the  bright  Presence,  "  that  another  year 
Dawns,  for  the  evil   to  redeem  their  past, 


72  THE   OLD  AND    THE  NEW. 

And  for  the  righteous  to  perfect  their  work, 
And  for  the  sorrowing  to  forget  their  grief, 
And  for  the  happy  to  diffuse  their  joy  ; 
And,  most  of   all,  that  wrong  anears  its  doom, 
And  Earth  —  through  all  her  sorrow  dear  to  God 
Hastes  to  her  glorious   millennium  ! " 

The  voice  sank  into  silence,  and  the  form 
Lustrous  with  beauty,  faded  from  my  gaze 
As  sunset  tints  fade  from  the  twilight  heavens : 
And,  questioning  my  soul,  I  sat  alone. 


WHAT   THE    OLD    YEAR    SAID. 

Twelve  .months  ago,  with  anthems  gratulant, 
Men  hailed  my  coming  ;    and  the  chime  of   bells, 
The  billowy   roll  of   organs,  and  the  songs 
Of  happy   children,   rained   on   me  and  mine 
Delicious  benedictions.     Now,  they   wait 
Impatient  for  the  hour  that  strikes  my   knell, 
And  heralds  my  successor.      Well-a-day ! 
So  waited  they  for  me,  and   so  in   turn 
For  each    New  Year    shall    wait,  till    Earth,  grown 

old, 
Reels  to  her  grave,  and  Time  shall  be  no  more! 
Yet,  not  regretful   that  my  work  is  done, 
From  my   last  foothold   on   the  crumbling  hours 
I  look,  calm-eyed,   over  the  vastitude 
Of   that  great  deep  ye  name  Eternity, 
And   wait   the   moment  that   shall   call  me  hence, 
To  years  that  told  the  earliest  age  of   Time, 
When     earth     stood     close  •  to     heaven,    and     angels 

walked 
Over  its   shining  hills,  and  talked   with   men  ; 
To  years  that  saw  the  fratricidal   blow 
That  gave  the  ground,  .^ince   soaked   through    all    its 

pores 


74  WHAT  THE   OLD    YEAR  SAID. 

With  that  red  wine,  its  primal  stain  of  blood  ; 
To  years  made  holy  by  the  breath  of   Christ, 
What  time  He  taught  and  fed  the  multitudes 
Among  the  hills  that  gird  Jerusalem  ; 
To  the  vast  congregation  of   the  years 
Which  rule  the  misty  empire  of  the  past : 
I  go  to  join  their  grand  fraternity. 

I  have  seen  enough  of  human  misery, 

Of   want,  oppression,  shame,  remorse,  and  woe  ; 

Of   toil,  and  waste,  and  iron-throated   war  ; 

Of   weakness  trampled  by  unholy  power  ; 

Of  right  downtrodden  'neath  the  heel  of    wrong; 

Of   tears,  and  laughter  sadder  far  than  tears  ; 

Of  hopes  too  surely  dark'ning  to  despair, 

And  all  that  veils  from  man  the  sunlit  heavens, 

And  makes  of   earth  one  red  Aceldama  ! 

Yet  Truth  still  lives  —  and  so  shall  dawn  for  man 

A  better  day  !     Yet  Freedom  battles  still 

With    tyrannous    Wrong  —  and    so  shall    dawn    for 

man 
A  better  day  !     Yet  God  is  over  all, 
From   discords  shaping  harmonies  divine, 
Making  all  things  subservient  to   His  will  — 
And  so  shall  dawn  for  man  a  better  day ! 
A  day  when  Love  and  Peace  shall  reign  supreme, 
And  Knowledge  clasp  the  hand   of   Liberty ; 


WHAT   THE    OLD    YEAR   SAID.  75 

A  day   when   Virtue   shall  in  every   heart 

Find   a   pure   home,  and  fill   it  with  the  light 

And   warmth  of  heaven.     Then   War  shall  stride  no 

more, 
With  clanging  arms  and  garments  rolled  in  blood, 
O'er  lands   that  groan  beneath   his   murderous  sway  ; 
But  the  far  continents  be  joined  in  ODe 
By   solemn  sacrament,   whose  ritual, 
Flashed  thr.ough  the  sunless    depths,  is  "  Glory  to 

God 
In  the  highest  !  Peace  ox  earth  !   Good  will 

TO    MEN  :  '* 

Thrice    blessed    is     he     whose    prescient     soul     can 

grasp, 
Ere  yet  it  dawns,  the  splendors  of   that  day, 
And  'mid  the   present  dark  still   walk  in  light, 
The  visiting  of   the  dayspring  from  on  high  ! 

Such  have  I  seen  —  the  Abdiels  of   the  race, 
u  Faithful   among  the  faithless "  —  hopeful   still 
Because  believing,  and  believing  still 
Haply  because  they   stand  so   near   to   God  ! 
Though   wrong  prevail,  they  fearless  plead  for  right ; 
Though   lies  buy  favor,  dare  speak  only   truth  ; 
Though  tyrants  rule,  are  leal   to  liberty  ! 
When   weak   souls  faint,   they   toil  serenely  on  ; 
When   traitors   turn,    they   know   no   compromi 
When   coward-  fail,  they  press   to  victory  ! 


76  WHAT   THE    OLD    TEAR  SAID. 

He  strikes  not  vainly  who,  howe'er  beset, 

Strikes  for  sheer  justice  !      Patience,  then,  ye  few 

Who  wage  unwearied   war  with   sceptered  wrong, 

Nor  truce  nor  parley  hold  with  tyranny  ; 

For,  though   the  hour  that  brings  you  full  success 

Wait,  and  disaster  gloom  above  your  way, 

Yet,  as  the  truth  is  greater  than  all  lies, 

And  right  immortal  and  akin  to   God, 

And   God  more  potent  than   the  hosts  of   hell, 

That  hour,  so  long  delayed,  shall  come,  and  p>lace 

On  your  scarred  brows  the  crown  of   victory  ! 

In  cold,  bare  attics,  and  in  cellars  damp, 

Where  the  frost  pinches  and  the  hunger  gnaws, 

And  sickness  saps  the  strength  from  day  to  day, 

And  hope  is  not,  I  have  seen  heroisms 

Grand  as  were  ever  traced  on  history's  page, 

Or  flushed  with  life  the  canvas  :   famished   men, 

Women,  and  children  battling  with  the  fiend 

That  whispers,  "  Wherefore  suffer,   when   the  hire 

Of   sin  swells  goldenly  before  your  eyes  ? 

Seize     the     rich    prize !      Be     rich,    be     strong,    and 

live  — 
For  virtue  brings  you   sorrow,  famine,  death  ! " 
And  they,  unhelped  in   their  extremity, 
Kept  their  souls   white,  and  bade  the  fiend  begone, 
And  said,  "  To  die  is  better  than  to  drive 
God's  angels  from  our  souls,  so   evermore 
Left  dark  and  cold  ;  'tis  better  far  to  die  ! " 


WHAT   THE   OLD    YEAR  SAID.  77 

And  I  have  seen   the  good   Samaritans  — 

Women   and   men  —  who  do   kind  deeds  by  stealth, 

And   ask   no  eye   but   God's   to  scan   their   work, 

Seeking  the   famished  with  supplies  of   food ; 

Seeking  the  sick   with  broths  and  medicines  ; 

Seeking  the  hopeless   with  sweet  prophecies 

Of  the   new  dawn   that   waits  behind   the  cloud  ; 

Seeking   the  broken-hearted   with  such   words 

Of    tender  sympathy  as   balm   their   wounds, 

And  open   vistas   to   the  calm   of   heaven  ; 

Seeking   the  sinful   with  divinest  love, 

That  through    guilt's    grime    still    sees    a    deathless 

soul, 
And,  with  large  pity,  and  as  large  a   hope, 
Strives  to  redeem  and  bring  it  back   to   God  ! 

0.   this  old   earth  —  so  scarred   by   violence  ; 

So  drenched    by   the  purple  vintage   of    the   sword  ; 

So   full  of    sorrows,   and   despairs,   and   deaths  ; 

So  foul   with  wrong,  and  dark   with   unbelief  — 

Not  yet  is  alien  from  her  paradise 

While  blest  with   ministering   spirits  such  as  these  ; 

Not   yet    hath    all    forgot    the   heavenly   light 

That  gleamed   above  her   hills   when    "  Very  good  J '" 

Surveying    His   finished    work,    the    Master  said. 


GOOD-BY,    OLD   YEAR. 

No  pause,  no  rest,  no  visual  line 

Between   the  years  that  come  and  go  ! 

For  some  too  fast,  for  some  too  slow  ; 
Time  never  stops  to  sleep  or  dine, 
But  on  and  on  with  steady  flight 
He  keeps  untired,    by  day,   by  night ; 
And  boys  and  girls,  ere  yet  aware, 
Find  threads  of   silver  in   their  hair, 

Their  love  of   quiet  growing  stronger ; 
And,  haply,  by  these  tokens  know  — 
"What  kind  friends  told  them  long  ago  — 

That  they  are  boys  and  girls  no  longer. 

Still  on,  as  silent  as  a  ghost ! 

Seems  but  a  score  of  days,  all  told, 
Or  but  a  month  or  two  at  most, 

Since  our  last  New  Year's  song  we  trolled, 

And  lo  !    that  New  Year  now  is  Old, 
And  here  we  stand  to  say  "  Good-by !  " 
Brief   words,  and  yet,  we  scarce  know  why, 
They  bring  a  moisture  to  the  eye, 

And  to  the  heart  some  quakes  and  aches ; 


GOOD-BY,    OLD    YEAR.  79 

We  speak  them  very  tenderly, 

With  half  a  sob  and  half  a  sigh  — 
u  Old  Year,  good-by  !     Old  Year,  good-by  ! " 
For  what  it  brought,  for  what  it  bikes, 
We  love  it,   and  for  loved  ones'  sakes  : 

Prized  for  its  hours  of   happiness, 

Nor  for  its  sacred  sorrows  less : 

For  all  it  gave   through  toil  and  strife 

Of   new  significance  to  life  — 

New  breadths,  new  depths,  new  heights  sublime, 

And,  haply,  kingship  over  time, 

Accept  our  thanks,  Old  Year  !    for  these, 

And  for  all  precious  memories 

Of   love,  of   grief,    of   joy,  of  pain, 

Whose  ministry  was  not  in   vain. 

And   so,  we  sadly  lay,  Old  Year ! 
Our  love-wreath  on   thy  snowy  bier, 
Our  love-wreath,  moistened  by  a  tear  ; 
And.   turning   from  our  brief   adieu, 
With  kindly   welcome  hail   the   New  ; 
True   to   the   Ruling  Power,   we  sing, 
u  The  king  is  dead  !  "     "  Long  live  the  king  !  " 


DIRGE    OF    THE    OLD   YEAR. 


The  good  Old  Year !    the  brave  Old   Year  ! 

He  loved  you  long,  and  he  loved  you   well  ! 
Scatter  ye  snow-flakes  on  his  bier, 

And  plant  his  grave  with  the  asphodel ! 
The  good  Old  Year  that  brought  you  cheer, 
In  the  days  now  gone ;  the  brave  Old  Year, 
Dead  in  the  midnight !  —  words  of   fear  ! 

ii. 

Winds  of   the  midnight !    wildly  swell, 

And  pour  your  dirge  o'er  the  dead  Old  Year  ! 

For  the  good  Old  Year  so  wan  and  pale, 
The  dead   Old  Year  on  his  icy  bier, 

For  the  brave  Old   Year  let  the  wild  winds  wail  ! 

For  the  dead  Old  Year,  toll,  toll  the  bell, 

And  let  the  winds  of    the  midnight  tell 

To  the  sobbing  streams  that  moan  and  plain, 
To  the  streams  that  moan  like  souls  in  pain, 
That   the  good  Old  Year  comes  not  again  ! 


DIRGE  OF   THE  OLD    YEAR.  81 

III. 

Dead  in   the  midnight  —  words  of   fear  ! 
Dead  in  the  midnight  —  brave  Old  Year  ! 
Dead  in   the  midnight,  on  his  bier ! 
Winds  of  the  midnight,  toll  the  bell ! 
Old   Year,  farewell ! 

Farewell  ! 

Farewell  ! 
And  the  solemn  midnight  hears  his  knell ! 

IV. 

The  rivers  sob  like  souls  in  pain, 
For  the  year  that  never  comes  again ; 
And  the   wailing  winds  to  the  woods  complain 
That  the  good  Old  Year  ne'er  comes  again  — 

That  the  soul  of   the  brave  Old  Year  has  fled  ; 
And   the  woods  respond  to  the  wild   wind's  wail 
"With  many  a  moan, 
With  many  a  groan, 
For  the  brave  Old  Year,  so  stark  and  pale  — 
Ah,  woe !    for  the  good  Old  Year  that's   dead  ! 
6 


A  RHYME  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

"  Ho  !  watchman,  standing  on  thy  tower, 
As  years  sweep  onward  in  their  flight 
"What  signs  in  heaven  attract  thy  sight, 

Predictive  of   the  coming  hour 

When  earth  shall  see  the  reign  of   right  ? 
What  of   the  night?     What  of   the  night?" 
And,  pointing  to   the  dim  gray   light 

Just  struggling  up  the  eastern  sky, 

A   promise  and  a  prophecy 

That  day  shall  chase  the  dark  that  glooraeth 

O'er  heaven   to  hide  it  from  our  eye, 

The  watchman  saith,  "  The  morning  cometh  ! '" 
And  angels  sing,  "  The  morning  cometh ! " 
And  earth  repeats,  "The  morning  cometh!" 

And  "  God  be  thanked  ! "    our  hearts  reply. 

Aye,   God  be  thanked  !     That  glimmering  ray 
Shall  kindle  to  the  perfect  day, 
Before  whose  beams  shall  slink  away 

The  horrid  shapes  of   darkness  born  — 
All  foulest  rites  and  cruel  creeds, 
Fierce  hates,  and  coward  fears,  and  deeds 


A   RHYME  FOR    THE  NEW   YEAR.  83 

Of   shame   that  shun   the  light  of   morn : 

Then   from  the  tyrant's  nerveless  hands 

Shall  drop   the  scourge   that  smote  the  lands ; 

From  its  red  carnival  of   death 

The  sword  return  into  its  sheath, 

To  reap  its  bloody  sheaves  no   more  : 

Peace,   with  her  oriflamme  unfurled, 

Summon   the  nations  of   the  world 
Its  better  era  to  restore  ; 

And  hungry  greed  shall  loose  its  hold 

Upon  the  toiler's  scanty  gold  ; 

The  fetters  from  the  slave  shall  fall ; 
The  dungeon-gates   that  shut  from  hope 
The  true,  brave  souls  that  dared   to  cope 
With   the  throned  wrong,  again   shall  ope, 

And  Freedom  give  her  boon  to  all ! 

Exult,  O   Earth  !  —  despoiled  so  long, 

Groping  in  blindness  and  in   sin, 
Cursed  by   thy  children's  cruel   wrong, 
And  scourged  by  hates,  a  fiendish  throng, 

That  stand   thy   temple-gates   within  — 
Lift    up    thy   regal   brow  !    for   lo  ! 
The  eastern   heavens   are   all  aglow 
With    the   new   dawn,   predicting  so 

Thy    new   life,   which   shall   soon    begin  ; 
A  large,  rich,  noble  life,  full-brimmed 

With   pure   impulses,  grand  desires, 


84  A  RHYME  FOR    THE  NEW  YEAR. 

And  deeds  as  grand  —  unsmutched,  undimmed 

By  aDy  lie  —  its  altar-fires 
Fed   with   the  love  of  love,  and  bright 

With  offerings  of   the  true  and  right; 
Not  commonplace,  nor  mean,  nor  dull ; 

A  life  whose  circling  clasp  shall   hold 
God's  life,  with  all  its  manifold 

Expressions  of   the  beautiful ; 
And,  reaching  on  and  upward  still, 

Shape  all  its  issues  to  His  will, 
And  so  life's  holiest  aims  fulfill. 


SONGS  OF  LOVE  AXD  HOME. 


FORTISSIMA. 

A  few  brief   hours  made  happy  by  thy  presence, 
Days    filled    with    pleasant    memories    of     those 
hours, 
Hopes  from  those    memories    born,  and    thoughts  of 
pleasance 
That  cheer    my  pathway  like    the    light    of   flow- 
ers— 
Some  brief   forgetfulness  of  earth's  afflictions, 

Some    glimpses    through    the    clouds    of   love  di- 
vine — 
For  these  I  owe  thee  thanks  and   benedictions, 
And  freight  my  verse  with    prayers  for  thee  and 
thine. 

But,  ah  !    how  swiftly  fled  those   hours  elysian  ! 

Like  a  bright  star-beam   through  a  rifted  storm, 
Glancing  a  moment,  thou  didst  bless   my  vision, 

An  angel-presence,  beautiful  and  warm. 
Then,  by  the  greedy  dark  devoured,  the  glory 


86  FOETISSIMA. 

Whose    radiant     baptism    thrilled     my    heart    and 
brain 
Passed  from  mine  eye.     'Tis  but  the  old,  sad  story 
Of  kindred  souls  dissevered,  told  again. 

Yet  thou  hast  blest  me  with  new  hope,  new   daring ; 

Thy  brave,  true  spirit,  permeating  mine, 
With  its  strong  faith  rebuked  my  weak  despairing, 

And  my  faint  heart  drank  energy  from  thine. 
In  thy  prophetic  eyes  I  saw  the  earnest 

Of   "  the    good    time "  whose    advent    thou    canst 
scan, 
The  reign   of   brotherhood  for  which  thou  yearnest, 

When  man  no  more  shall  trample  upon  man. 

And  now,  afar  from  thee,  yet  not  from  sorrow, 

Sweet  memories  come  my  saddened  soul  to  cheer ; 
Thy  voice,  clear-cadenced,  from  whose    tones   I  bor- 
row 
Hope  for  the  future,  greets  again  my  ear. 
Once  more  thy  soul  looks  forth  from  eyes  that  thrill 
me 
With  a  most  pure  delight ;    I  see  the  glow 
That  flushes  thy  pale  cheek,  while  thoughts   that   fill 
me 
With  grand,  vague    yearnings    from  thy  lips  o'er- 
flow. 


F0RTJS8IMA.  87 

Ah  !    couklst  thou  to  my  spiritual  sense  be  present 

Ever  as  now,  I  should  forget  my  fears, 
Knowing  that  evil  must  be  evanescent, 

And  good   triumphant   through   the  eternal  years  ! 
Thine  eyes  should  teach  me  this  sublime  evangel, 

For  in   their  light  all  skeptic  thoughts  are  dumb. 
And  faith  should  hail  thee  as   the  herald-angel 

Of   earth's  true  srolden  a°;e  that  soon  shall  come. 

Thy  sunlike  soul  my  weary  way  hath  lighted 

Through  doubts  and  fears    that    veil    the    heavens 
in  gloom  ; 
So  fails  not  wholly,  'mid  despair  benighted, 

The  faith,  that  evil  hastens  to  its  doom. 
For  this,  new  strengthened  by  the  prophet-voices 

Speaking  in  silence  through  thy  life   to   mine  — 
Nor  less  for  patience   that  from  rudest  noises 

Can  deftly  fashion  harmonies  divine  ; 

For  courage  that  can  overleap  disaster, 

And  strive,  and  wait,  and  suffer,  and  endure, 
While   victory  tarries,  and  the  wrong  is  master 

Over  the  millions  of  earth's  struggling  poor; 
For  the  true  love  that  binds  thee  fast  to  duty  ; 

For  the  great  hope3  that  brighten  from  afar, 
And   fill   the   soul   with   their  divinest   beauty, 

Thou  shall  henceforth  be  called  —  Foutissi.ua. 


THE    AVOWAL. 

I  love  you  —  'tis  the  simplest  way 

The  thing  I  feel  to  tell; 
Yet  if   I  told  it  all  the  day, 

You'd  never  guess  how  well. 
You  are  my  comfort  and  my  light  — 

My  very  life  you  seem  ; 
I  think  of  you   all  day ;    all  night 

'Tis  but  of   you  I  dream. 

There's  pleasure  in  the  lightest  word 

That  you  can   speak  to  me ; 
My  soul  is  like  the  .ZEolian's  chord, 

Ancl  vibrates  still  to  thee. 
I  never  read  the  love-song  yet, 

So  thrilling,  fond,  or  true. 
But  in  my  own  heart  I  have  met 

Some  kinder  thought  for  you. 

I  bless  the  shadows  of  your  face, 
The  light   upon  your  hair  — 

I  like  for  hours  to  sit  and  trace 
The  passing  changes  there ; 


THE  AVOWAL.  89 

I  love  to  hear  your  voice's  tone, 
Although  you  should  not  say    . 

A  single  word  to  dream  upon 
When  that  has   died  away. 

O  !    you  are  kindly  as  the  beam 

That  warms  where'er  it  plays, 
And  you  are  gentle  as  a  dream 

Of   happy  future  days  ; 
And  you  are  strong  to  do  the  right, 

And  swift  the  wrong  to  flee ; 
And  if   you  were  not  half   so  bright, 

You're  all  the  world  to  me. 


HEE   NAME. 

'Tis  a  name  I  love  to  trace, 
Simple,  brief,  and  full  of  grace  ; 
Two  short  syllables,  they  lie 
Like  a  flower  beneath  my  eye. 
Sweetly  beautiful  and  bright, 
Giving  a  serene  delight : 
Linked  with  thoughts  of  summer  hours, 
When  the  winds  caress  the  flowers  ; 
Linked  with  memories  sadly  sweet, 
Such  as  time  can  ne'er  repeat, 
When   my  life  was  like  a  tune 
Played  by  winds  and  waves  in  June, 
Or  an  angel-chanted  psalm 
Heard  amid  the  eternal  calm  ! 

Simple  name  !  —  yet  known  to  me 
Is  its  potent  witchery ! 
Never  note  of   lute  or  bird, 
Charmed  me  like  that  little   word  ; 
Never  did  my  pulses  beat 
To  a  music  half   as  sweet 
As  is  that,  to  me,  that  dwells 
In  those  silver  syllables  ! 


HER   NAME.  91 

With   a  necromantic  power 

Bring  they  back  a  happier  hour, 

When   a  ki mired  soul  witli   mine 

Held   companionship  divine, 

And   with  deepest   wisdom  fraught 

Were   the  lessons  which   she  taught. 

How  to  bear  with  evil  long  ; 

How  to  suffer  and  be  strong ; 

How  to  wrest  from  adverse  powers 

Blessings  we  may  claim  as  ours  ; 

How  to  triumph  over  ill 

By  a  never  faltering  will ; 

And,  appalled  not  by  the  strife, 

Tread  the  solemn  march  of   life, 

With  a  faith  serene  and  high, 

Upward  to   our  destiny  ! 

This  her  lore  —  and  sweet  to  me 

Was  her   holy  ministry, 

For   her   life  as  rhyme  to  rhyme 

Fitly   with   her  lore  kept  cliime. 

Now.  as   here  her  name  I  trace, 
Memory   brings  us  face  to  face, 
And  her  eyes,  serene  and   clear, 
Fill   with  love  the  atmosphere  — 
Dove-like  eyes  of   softest  brown. 
Lifted  often  to  my  own, 


92  HER  NAME. 

Now  with  sweetest  meaning  fraught, 
Bright,  anon,  with   happy   thought  ; 
Humid  with  their  pitying  tears, 
Brimmed  with  splendor  from  the  spheres ; 
Changing,  as  her  fancies  range  — 
Beautiful  in  every  change  ! 
Never  from  our  western  skies 
Gleamed  the  light  in  lovelier  eyes  ! 

Parted  o'er  a  thoughtful  brow, 
Sweeps  her  hair  with  graceful  flow, 
Falling  downward  o'er  her  neck, 
Half   to  hide,  and  half   to  deck, 
While  a  lustre,  warm  and  fresh, 
Lingers  in  its  silken  mesh 
Lovingly,  as  loath  to  roam 
From  so  beautiful  a  home. 
Pale  but  fashioned  not  the  less 
To  the  law  of  loveliness, 
Is  the  cheek  whose  roses  fled 
When  her  early  hopes  lay  dead, 
And  her  heart  in  sorrow's  strife 
Learned  how  sad  a  thing  is  life. 

Ah,  my  friend  !    what  potent  spell 
In  thy  child-like  name  doth  dwell, 
Thus  to  sweep  o'er  memory's  track 
^  And  the  past  to  summon  back  ! 


HER   NAME.  93 

Lightly   traced,   with   careless  pen, 
Thou  art  with  me  once  again, 
Sad,  and  beautiful,  and  wise, 
Purified  by  agonies  : 
Quiet,  gentle,  gracious,  good, 
All  thy  soul   with  love   imbued, 
Trusting  truth  with  faith   serene, 
Scorning  all  that's  false  and   mean, 
Yet,  with  sorrow,  pain,  and  wrong 
Wrestling   wearily  and  long ! 

Long  and  wearily,  but  still, 

With  unconquerable  will, 

Wresting  from  each  trial  sent 

All  the  latent  good  it  meant, 

And  though  clouds  thy  sky  deform, 

Seeking  light  beyond  the  storm  ; 

So,  through  pain  and  toil  and  sorrow, 

Looking  for  a  brighter  morrow  ! 

And,  if    God  be  what  we  deem, 

And,  if   heaven  be  not  a  dream, 

Hope,  and   faith,  and  love  in  vain, 

And  our   life  a  blank   inane  — 

It  shall  come,  thy  triumph-hour 

In   its  glory  and   its  power  ! 

Not   in   vain   hath   been   thy   strife 
With   the  evil   things  of    life  ! 


94  HER  NAME. 

Not  in  vain  the  patient  hope 
That   hath  borne  thy  spirit   up, 
When  contumely,  scorn,  and   wrath 
Howled  along  thine  onward  path  ! 
Not  in  vain   thy  holy   trust 
In  the  triumph  of   the  just ! 
Life  hath  yet  a  bliss  for  thee, 
Love  its  thrill  of   ecstasy  ! 
Peace  shall  brood  with  wing  benign 
Over  heart  and  home  of   thine, 
And  the  rainbow  gleam  at  last, 
On  the  darkness  overpast  ! 


RESPONSE. 

I  come  !     I  come ! 
Thy   voice  is  in   my   ears  —  a  spirit  tone 

With  its  mysterious  power  my  heart  to  thrill, 
And   waken,   with  a  music  all  its  own, 

Sweet  memories  of   the  past  my  soul  to  fill. 
It  hath  been   wkh  me  when  the  starry  night 

Looked  on  me  with  kind   eyes  ;    and  in  my  hair, 
And  on  my  fevered  cheek,  like  drops  of  light, 

Glittered  soft  dew  :    it   whispers  in  the  air 
That  fans  my  brow,  as  listlessly  I  lean 
From  the  low  casement,  where  the  woodbine  green 
And  fragrant    jasmine  cling  ;    its  cadences 

Distinct  and  clear,    with   gradual  fall   and  swell 
Like   the   weird  murmuring  of   the  forest  trees 

Heard  in   the  twilight  hour,  are  as  a  spell 
Of    witchery   to  my  soul  —  too  deeply  fraught 
With  one  intense,  o'ermastering,  burning  thought, 
To  heed  aught  else.      So  let  my  spirit  drink 
That  wondrous   music,  u  poured  from  heaven's  brink 
0,  best   beloved  !      I  come  ! 


96  BESPONSF. 

I   come  !     I  come  ! 
The  world  is  dark  since  it  hath  lost  the  light 

Of   thy  clear  eyes ;    and  midnight's  starless  gloom 
Hath  brooded  o'er  my  soul,  and  from  its  sight 

Shut  the    sweet    face    of   day.     When    closed  the 
tomb 
Over  thy  peerless  form,  my  lone  heart  died 

Alike  to  hope  and  fear,  to  love  and  hate ; 
Since  that  dark  hour,  sustained  alone  by  pride, 

I've  trod  the  paths  of   men  disconsolate. 
Now,  I  am  weary,  weary  ;    I  would  come 
To  thee,  sweet  spirit !  —  to  thy  radiant  home 
Where  love  and  sorrow  mingle  not  as  here, 

Nor  throb  with  burning  anguish  heart  and   brain. 
Nor  once  bright  eyes  grow  dim  with  many  a  tear 

Nor  strives  the  soul  with  life's  consuming  pain. 
O,  not  to  mock  us  hath  this  boou  of   heaven, 
All-conquering,  all-sustaining  love,  been  given ; 
So  shall  the  ties  that  death  hath   torn  apart 
Again  be  knit,  uniting  heart  with  heart ! 
I   hear  thy  voice  —  I  come  ! 


DORA. 


She  was  a  child,  and  little  knew 

Of   the  world-wisdom  lived  in  books  : 
Sweet,  quiet  thoughts,  and  wishes  few, 

A  still  soul  smiling  in  her  looks  : 
Fancies  that  seldom  soared  too  high 

To  chase  the  bee  or  butterfly, 
And  from  their  unambitious  flights 
Brought  new  and  innocent  delights ; 
Joys  deep  and  pure  as  summer  skies 
And  gentle  as  my   Dora's  eyes, 

These  were  her  dower ;    nor  these  alone, 
But  a  calm,  pure,  and  saintly  grace, 
Which  gave  a  glory  to  her  face, 

A  charm  peculiarly  its  own, 
That  made  you,  as  you  gazed  on  her, 
Half   lover  and  half   worshipper. 

She  loved  me  —  yet  I  scarce  know  why ; 

My  speech  had  naught  of   courtly  grace, 
And  care  and  grief    had  dimmed  my  eye 

And  left  their  record  on  my  face,  — 

7 


98  DORA. 

That  face,  so  pale  and   passionless, 

I  little  deemed  could  ever  win 
From  beauty's  lip  the  soft  caress, 
Which  if   it  be  unrighteousness, 

Would  make  a  saint  in  love   with  sin  ! 
If   heaven  hath  more  of   thrilling  bliss 
Than   I  have  drank   from   Dora's  kiss, 
'Tis   well  that  heaven  is  placed  so  high 
And  veiled  from  our  mortality  ; 

Else,  with  its  rapture's  rich  excess, 

Thrilled  through  and  through  with  blessedness, 
We  should  grow  early   mad,  and  die. 

She  loved  me  —  and  as  Winter's  snows 

Melt  to  the  breezy   touch  of  Spring  ; 
As  the  gray  east  with  rose-light  glows 

Before  Aurora's   wakening  ; 
As,  with  a  passionate  surprise 
That  floods  with  happy  tears   her  eyes, 
The  young  wife  feels  the  first  faint  stir 

Of   the  new  life  that  soon  shall  be 
Of  a  new  joy  the  minister,  — 

A  baby,  crowing  on  her  knee. — 
And,  dreaming  of   her  unborn    boy,  . 
Is  saddened  by  too  deep  a  joy,  — 
So  from  my  soul  the  icy  thrall 

Was  melted  by  her  love  away ; 
So  hope,  revived,  threw  over  all 


DORA.  99 

Of   life  a  brightness  as  of   day  ;    • 
So,  trembling  with  its  joy's  excess, 

My  spirit  to  its  centre  shook, 
And  from  its  wild  tumnltuonsness 

A  shade  of   conscious  sadness  took. 

ii. 

I  know  not  how,  but  o'er  me  seemed 

To  come  a  horror  deep  and  dread, 
And  in   that  pulseless  gloom,  I  deemed  — 

Or  did  I  see?  —  my   Dora,  dead! 
A  burning  weight  was  on  my  brain, 
And  all  my  nerves  were  fiery  pain, 
And  wild,  weird  fancies  through  and  through 
My  swooning  soul,  like  demons  flew  ! 
Methought  I   stood  by   Dora's  side,  — 
Dear  Dora,  but  a  three  weeks'  bride  : 

The  deathly  white   was  on  her  lips  — 
Sweet  lips,  by  mine  so  often  kissed  — 

And  o'er  her  eyes   the  death-eclipse 
Slow-gathered  with  its  veiling  mist. 
Yet  still  on   me  her  glance  was  turned 

"With  such  unutterable  love, 
It  seemed  her  saintly   spirit  yearned, 

While  angels  beckoned  from  above, 
To  pour  its  gift  of    peace  divine, 
Its  rapture  and  repose,  through  mine  ! 


102  DOB  A. 

0  God! 

TJwu  didst  not  need  her  —  though  more  fair 

Than  any  of   thine  angels  are  — 
For  heaven's  high  courts  by  throngs  are  trod, 
Whose  white  wings  in   the  golden  fires 

Flashing,  their  rosy  splendors  throw 
Down  through  the  blue,  while  starry  lyres 
Swept  by  a  thousand  hands  of   flame, 

And  vital   with  sweet  sounds,  o'erflow 
With  hallelujahs  to  thy  name ! 

O  might  not   these  for  heaven  suffice, 
When   one  could  make  my  paradise  ? 
And  she  was  mine  —  my  angel!      Why, 
God  !    didst  thou  let  my  Dora  die  ? 


REVISITED. 

Once  on  my  heart  there  fell  a  crushing  weight 

Heavy  and  cold ;    and  earth,  and  sea,  and   sky 

Their  brightness  lost  for  me,  as  if   one  life 

Held  in  itself   all  visible  delight, 

All  possible   joy,  that  with  its  lapse   were  gone. 

For  when   that  life  which  had  companioned   mine 

Left  the  sweet  form  that  gave  me  hints  of   heaven, 

The  very  sun  seemed  darkened,  as  it,  too, 

Felt  sorrow's  sad  eclipse.     Nor  odorous  air, 

Nor  flowers  fresh-blooming,  nor  the  songs  of   birds, 

Nor  Nature's  wondrous  harmonies  from  the   wood. 

And  runniug  stream,  and  dashing  waterfall, 

Flung  out  continuously,  nor  the  sweet  voices 

Of  children  at  their  play,  nor  the  soft  gleam 

Of   eyes  that  spoke  of  love,  nor  words  of   hope 

Breathed  from  affection's  lips,  nor  kind  appeals 

To  look   to   Him  whose  chastening  hand  is  laid 

In  tenderest  pity  on  His  little  ones, 

Could    bring    me    peace,  or  from   my  crushed  heart 

lift 
That  icy   weight  of   sorrow.     To   myself 
I  seemed  forlornest  of  earth's  multitudes, 


104  REVISITED. 

And  hugged  my  selfish  grief  by  day  and  night. 
And  fed  my  hungry  soul  with  bitter  thoughts, 
And  in  the  darkness  communed  with  despair. 
O,  impious  !     Thus   God's  goodness  to  impeach, 
And  war  insanely  with  the  Love  Divine  ! 

Years  have  gone  by :   and  I  —  who  long  have  been 

Over  the  earth  a  wanderer,  seeing  oft 

The   woe  I  could  not  heal,  and  hearing  oft 

The  unconscious  sigh  that  seemed  to  mock  my  own 

(Thus  taught  that  sorrow  is  our  common  lot, 

And  all  the  holy  power  of   sympathy), 

Still  not  forgetting,  but  with   tenderer  grief 

Remembering  my  dead — stand  yet  again 

Beside  the  grave  that  holds  the  dearest  dust 

That  God  e'er  fashioned  to  a  human  form! 

How  through  a  thousand  changes  that  have  passed 

Over  my  life  —  through  trials  manifold, 

Temptations,  conflicts,  triumphs,  griefs,  and  joys  ; 

Through  toils  that  nerved  and  pains  that  racked  my 

frame  ; 
Or  on  the  waste  of   ocean,  or  amid 
The  surging  billows  of   a  human  sea 
In  million-peopled  cities  —  how  through  all 
Has  memory  turned  to  this  thrice-hallowed  spot, 
My  sad   soul's  Mecca !      Sorrow's  holiest  shrine  ! 
Where  thoughts  all  tender,  and  affections  pure, 
Cluster  and  dwell ;    for  when  the  pitying  years 


REVISITED.  105 

Had  mellowed  my  despair  to  fond  regret, 
New  feelings  sprung  to  life   within  my  soul, 
And  love  for  her  whose  love  had  been  my  heaven, 
Widened  to  love  for  wide  humanity  ! 

Hallowed  by  dust  that  once  enshrined  a  soul 

Whose  presence  made  its  human  all  divine, 

Than    this    green    grave    my    wandering    feet    have 

found 
No  holier  spot  beneath  the  cope  of   heaven. 
And,  kneeling  here,  I  feel  the  circling  wings 
Of   angels  fanning,  with  their  rhythmic  beat, 
The  air  made  odorous  with  celestial  flowers 
And  vibrant  with  celestial  melodies  ; 
While  tender  memories  of   the  past  throng  back, 
And  gleams  of  joy  supernal  visit  me, 
And  all  my  conscious  spirit  seems  aflame 
With  light  from  love's  divine  Apocalypse ! 


BENEDICTION. 

When  the  sweet  syllables  that  form  thy  name 
Are  on   my  lips,  ere  yet  the  conscious  air 
Receives  their  music,  in  my  heart  a  prayer 

(The  offspring  of   a  reverent  love)   doth  claim 

Of   heaven  a  boon  for  thee.     Thou  canst  not  guess 

Its  nature  :    'tis  not  wealth  —  nor  happiness  — 

Nor  poet-fame,  by  many  coveted 

As  the  best  good  of   all —  nor  idle  ea>e, 

On  velvet  couched,  and  skied  by  silk  overhead, 
And  lulled  to  sleep  by  silvery  cadences  ; 

For  luxury  palls,  and  fame  is  but  a  breath  ; 

Wealth    bloats     with    pride,  or,  even    worse,  con- 
tracts 
The  soul  to  petty  thoughts  and  paltry  acts, 

And  happiness  is  tested  but  by  death ! 

No,  no  !    for  thee  my  loving  heart  hath  wrought 
A  nobler  wish,  with  better  reason   fraught, 

Worthier  thyself,  beloved  !    therefore,  best. 
Thine  be  a  life  not  free  from   pain  and  care, 
But  nobly  good   and  sanctified  by  prayer  ; 

Finding  in  duty,  peace  made   manifest, 


BENEDICTION.  107 

Equal   to  all  that  fortune  may  bestow 
•  Of   good  or  ill,   of   happiness  or  woe  ; 
Taught  by   them  all   thy  trust   in   God  to   place, 
From  all  deriving  needed  strength  and  grace 

To  tread  the  flinty  path  or  flowery  way, 
The  while  thy  soul  shall  evermore  expand, 
And  all   thy  hopes  grow  beautiful   and  grand, 

Tinged  with  the  dawn-light  of  the  heavenly  day  ! 
Such  life,  or  long,  or  short,  breathes  holy  breath, 
And,  bright'ning  still,  is  perfected  by  death  ! 


BEATRICE. 

My  prophet-heart  for  thee  foretells 

The  bliss  that  shall  be  born  of   pain, 

And  on  my  ear  exultant  swells 

O'er  conquered  fate  the  victor-strain. 

Though  darkly  now  around   thee  throng 
Ills  that  might  make  the  boldest  quail, 

Still  hope  !  —  not  always  shall  the  wrong 
O'er  trampled  truth  and  right  prevail. 

Doubt  not  the  issue  of   the  strife, 
Be  strong  to  wrestle  with  thy  pain ; 

For  thou  shalt  yet  prevail,  and  life 
Wear  its  old  glory  once  again. 

Confront  the  clouds  with  steadfast  eye, 
And  lo  !    their  gloom  is  flecked  with  light 

While  yonder,  in  the  eastern  sky, 

The  young  dawn  battles  with  the  night. 

Slowly  the  baffled  dark  retires  — 

Slowly   the  dawn,  with  widening  sway, 


BEATRICE.  109 

Prevails,  and  soon  his  kindling  fires 
Shall  culminate  to  perfect  day. 

Think  what  a   wealth  of  love  is  thine  ! 

The  largess  of   the  pure  and  good, 
The  trust,   the  sympathy  divine 

Of   manhood  and  of   womanhood  ! 

Thy   pathway  shall  be  circled  still 
By  starry  souls  whose  faith  serene 

Can  pierce  the  shades  of   present  ill, 
And  grasp  the  guerdon  yet  unseen. 

For  linked  to  thine  by  holiest  ties, 

Nor  time  nor  trial  e'er  can  part, 
By  hopes  and  prayers  and  sympathies, 

Is  many  a  true  and  noble  heart. 

Nor  hate's  device  nor  falsehood's  guile 
Can  shake  their  perfect  trust  in   thee, 

Nor  cloud  their  faith  that  all   the  while 
Good  angels  keep  thee  company. 

Thou  canst,  through  parting  clouds,  behold 
The  flash  of   many  a  radiant  wing, 

While  silvery  voices  manifold 

To  thee  of   hope  and  courage  sing. 


110  BE  ATM  IE. 

Of  hope  —  to  lead  i)\ee  still  along 

Through  doubt's  cold  gloom  to  faith's  repo>e  ; 
Of   courage  —  to  endure,  be  strong, 

And  calmly  triumph   o'er  thy  foes. 

Light,  born  of   darkness,   shall   be  thine  ; 

Strength,   from  long  struggling  with  the  ill  ; 
From   discord,  peace;    and  love  divine, 

Thy  soul's  profoundest  depths  shall  fill ! 

And  in  thy  culminating  bliss, 

Made  brighter  by  remembered   wo, 

Shalt  thou  at  length,  dear  Beatrice, 
The   mission  of   all  sorrow  know. 


THE    LOST    STAR. 

God  set   a  star  within  our  sky. 

And  o'er  our  home  its  light  was   thrown, 
And  as  we  looked  with  loving  eye 

It  seemed  peculiarly   our  own. 

And  evermore  its  growing   ray 

Drove  out  whate'er  was  dark  and   cold, 

Till  life  seemed  luminous  as  day, 

And   all   its  glooms   were   tinged   with  gold. 

Resolves  and  hopes   which  long  had  lain 

Palsied  by   custom  and  distrust, 
Touched  by  its  warmth,  revived  again, 

And  brightly  blossomed   from  the  dust 

Thenceforth,  with  clearer  eyes   we  saw 

"What  seemed  before  but  blurred  and  dim  ; 

And   read  anew    God's   perfect  law 
Which   binds   the   universe   to   Him. 

With    wider   ecope    IIi>    works    we    viewed, 
The   slow   unfolding  of    II is   plan, 


112  THE  LOST  STAR. 

And,  taught  by  loving  hearts,  renewed 
Our  faith  in   God,  our  faith  in  man. 

And  earth  and  sky,  and  day  and  night, 
No"  longer  dark,  and  drear,  and  dull, 

Basked  in  that  permeating  light, 
And  glowed  divinely  beautiful. 

But  suddenly,  while  yet  our  lips 

Trembled  with  songs  of  grateful  praise, 

Our  star,  involved  in  drear  eclipse, 
No  longer  cheered  us  with  its  rays. 

Then  darkness  deep  and  full  of  dread 
Threw  o'er  our  sky  its  veil  of   gloom  ; 

We  seemed  to  walk  amid  the  dead, 
And  earth  itself   was  but  a  tomb. 

Perchance  some  questioning  or  doubt 
Of   God  Himself  came  o'er  our  mind, 

When  that  sweet  star  was  blotted  out, 
And  hope  expired,  and  faith  was  blind. 

Perchance  our  wayward  wills  rebelled 
Against  the  loving  Father's  will, 

Till  sorrow's  first  wild  gust   was  quelled 
By  His  all  tender  "  Peace  !    be  still !  " 


TEE   LOST  STAR. 


For  weak,  at  best,  is  human  faith. 

And  love  is  passionate  and  strong, 
And   wildly  deems  the  loss  or  death 

Of    what   we  love,  a  cruel   wron^f. 


But   God   is  good,  and   folds  in  calms 
Of   His  own   rest  our  restless  souls, 

Till  with  hushed  hearts  and  clasped  palms 
We   bless  the  Wisdom   that  controls. 

And   when  for  us  the  heavy  hour 
Of   doubt  went  by,  and  holy  trust 

Resumed  its  tranquilizing  power, 

And  hope  looked  upward  from  the  dust, - 

Our  hearts  interpreted  the  law 

Of   earthly  loss  and   heavenly  gain  ; 

And   through  the  lens  of    faith   we  saw 
The  covering  darkness  rent  in    twain; 

And  lo  !    the    star  we  called  our  own, 

Whose  loss   we  mourned   with   bitter   tears. 

Full  orbed  and  clear  serenely  shone, 
A  light  to  gladden   all  our  years. 


NO    HOME. 

We  have  no  Lome.     The  world  is   wide  — 

The  world  is  beautiful   to  see. 
With  sunny   slopes  and  valleys  fair, 
And  luscious  fruits  and  blossoms   rare, 
And   solemn   woods,  and   murmurous   streams 
Whose  music,  blending   with   my  dream*, 

Is  Nature's  choral  melody  — 

Ah  !    beautiful  are  all  to  me, 
Dear  May,   when   thou  art  by  my  side  ! 

Yet  neither  slope,  nor  vale,  nor  tree, 
Nor  pleasant  nook,  where  'neath  the  shadows 

Of   stately   elms  a  cot  peeps  out, 
Nor  flowers  that  glorify  the  meadows, 

Nor  mountain-rill   with  music-shout, 
Is  mine  or  thine  ;  beneath  the  dome 
Of    God's  blue  sky,  we   have  no  home. 

Tired,  when  the  day  is  done,  I  go 

With  melancholy  steps  and  slow 

Through  the  long  streets,  where,  row  on  row, 

Stretching  away  for  weary  miles, 

Are  stone  and  brick  and  marble  piles  — 


NO  HOME.  115 

The  stately  palaces  where  Trade 
Sits  regnaDt    on  his  throne  of  bales, 
A  king  whose  sovereignty  prevails 

Without  the  cannon's   noisy  aid  ; 
Or.  still   beyond,  in  lengthening  lines, 
Mansions   where  pale   Dyspepsia  dines, 
And   Gout  grows   frantic  o'er  his  wines ; 
But  not  a  latch  springs  back  for  me 
As  if   it  felt   an  owner's  key, 
Or  heard  his  "  Open   Sesame  !  " 
Through  street  and  "  Place "  I   idly  roam, 
And  murmur  to  myself,  "  Xo  home  ! " 

O,  for  some  spot  to  call  our  own  ! 

Some  humble  roof   however  lowly, 

AVhere  we  can  say  "  This  place  is  holy, 
Because  'tis  home,  —  ours,  ours  alone 
From   roof-tree  to  foundation   stone." 
Some  garden-close,   where  grass  can  grow 

Untrodden  by  the  stranger's  foot, 
And  roses  shall  have  leave  to  blow, 

And  strawberry  beds  to  blush   with  fruit ; 
And  lilacs   with  their  purple  blooms, 

The  daisy   and  the  violet, 

And  heliotrope  and  mignonnette 
Sow  all   the   winds   with   rich   perfume  ; 

And  add  to  these  some  two  or  three 


116  NO  HOME. 

Exotics,  with  their  crimson  flames 
And  unpronounceable  sweet  names, 
All  "  beautiful,  exceedingly  "  — 
With  here  and  there  an  apple-tree, 
Beneath  whose  shade  my  gentle  May 
Can   watch  our  children  at   their  play, 
As  happy  and  as  pure  as   they, 
And  lovelier  than  the  rarest  flowers 
That  beautify  this  home  of   ours. 

But  ah  !    I  dream  —  and  dreams  are  vain, 

So   wiser  men  than   I  aver, 
And  yet  these  motions  of    the  brain, 

The  pulses  of   my  heart  can   stir, 
And  many   a   weary  hour  beguile 
With   visions  fair,   that  reconcile 
My  life  to  fortune's  evil  stress, 
That  else  would  on   my  spirit  press 
With   double  weight  of   loneliness. 
What  matters,  though  my  sole  domain, 

Iinparadised  'mid  flowers  and  trees, 
Is  classed  with  those  "  Estates  "  in   Spain, 

We  call  "  Intangibilities  "  ? 

Though  May.  my  beautiful,  my  own, 
Whose  love  interprets  to  my  sense 

All  that  to  mortals  can   be  known 
Of  joy,  and  peace,  and  innocence, 


NO  HOME.  117 

Is  only   fancy's  fond    ideal 

With   wifehood  in  the  future   tense, 

Yet  must  I  deem   that  dreams  like  these 
Come  to  my  soul   with  ministries 
Alike  beneficent  and  real, 
Whose  subtle  and  refining  power 
Endues  with  strength  for  trial's  hour, 
And,  even  'mid  darkness  manifold, 
Sublimes  my   vision   to  behold 
Life's  glorious  possibilities  I 


SONG. 

I  am  lonely,  clearest, 

Very  sad  and  lone ! 
Life  is  dark  without  thee, 

And  its  glory  gone  ! 
O'er  the  shining  azure 

Shadows   brood  and  swim, 
Sits  my  soul  in   shadows 

Desolate  and  dim. 

Though  the  opening  blossoms 

Rain   from  myriad  trees, 
And  divinest  odors 

Float  upon  the  breeze  — 
Though  the  air  is  vocal 

With  the  song  of   birds, 
Vainly  am   I  pining 

For  thy  sweeter  words. 

Sadly   in  the  gloaming 

Do  I  sit  alone, 
And   my  heart  converses 

With  the  dear  one  gone ! 


SONG.  119 


Words  of   sweetest  meanings 
Linger  still   with  me, 

As  my  soul,  in  silence, 
Goeth  forth  to  thee  ! 

Through  the  holy  starlight, 

Through  the  odorous  air, 
From  my  heart  ascendeth 

Still  for  thee  its  prayer ! 
But  that  heart  is  lonely,  — 

Thou  art  far  away. 
And   my  soul  in   shadow 

Sitteth  night  and  day  ! 


NOT   MINE. 

Thou  art  not  mine,  though  to  my  spirit  dearer 

Than  all  of   earth  besides :  sole  cynosure 
Shining  through  clouds   that  nearer  gloom  and  nearer, 

With  a  most  steady  brightness,  calm  and  pure  ; 
Piercing  the  darkness  with   serenest  splendor, 

And  o'er  my  being  shedding  light  divine  ; 
For  this  the  homage  of    my   heart   I   render, 

While  still   that  heart  mourns  on  —  Not    mine  — 
not  mine ! 

Not    mine  —  not    mine  !    though    never    name    hath 
parted 
My  lips  so  oft  as   that  which   thou  dost  bear  ! 
Thridding   the  lonely   wood-paths,  weary-hearted, 

I  breathe  its  music  to  the  listening  air. 
'Tis  the   pure  spirit  of  my  aspirations, 

The  one    clear    note    whose    sweetness    seeing 
vine, 
Still  sounding  on   with  infinite  vibrations, 

And    through    sad    minors    of  —  Not     mine — not 
mine  ! 


NOT   MINE.  121 

Not  mine  —  not  mine !  though  I  have  dared  to  love 
thee 

With   the  mad  love  whose  passionate  excess 
Confesses  no  ideal   throned  above  thee, 

But   sees  in   thee  the  crown  of   loveliness  ! 
Ah  !    wilder   worship  ne'er   was  paid   the  human, 

N<>r  costlier  offering  laid  on  beauty's  shrine, 
Than    I   have  given   thee,  O  peerless  woman  ! 

Fairest  and  dearest,  but  —  Not  mine  —  not  mine  ! 

Not    mine  —  not    mine  !     though     all    I    dream     of 
beauty 

Dwells  in   the  lustrous  depth  of  thy  dark  eyes, 
And   my   wild   passion  is  sublimed   to  duty, 

That  sees  in   thee  all   templed   sanctities! 
Vainly,   in   word?,  my  full  heart  seeks  expression, 

And   pants   to   mingle   its   best  life   with   thine  ! 
Vainly   it  supplicates   thy  heart's  possession, 

And,  baffled,  murmurs  still  —  Not  mine  —  not  mine  ! 

Not   mine  —  not  mine!     O,  words  of  bitter  anguish! 

O,  pulse   of  fire  to  throb  through   heart   and    brain  ! 
O,  prophet-voice   that   tells   me    I   must   languish 

Still   for  thy   love,  and   love   thee  still    in   vain  ! 
Another   heart   shall    know    the    priceless   blessing 

Which   my   sad   heart  forever   must  resign ; 
Another    lip   .-hall    taaffi   thy   lip's   caressing. 

And   still   my   moan    sound    on — Not   mine — not 
mine  ! 


DESTINY. 

Bid  me  not  cease  to  love  thee  !    though  all  vainly  : 

My   heart's  best  gifts  are  lavished  on  thy  shrine  ; 
Though  happiness  and   hope  seem   wrecked  insanely, 

Since   well  I  know   thou  never  canst  be   mine ! 
Yet,  dearest,  by  the  heaven   that  bends  above  thee, 

By   the  good  angels  with  their  pitying  eyes, 
And  by   thy  soul,  bid  me  not  cease  to  love  thee, 

For  life  must  pass  ere  this  wild   passion  dies. 

My  memory  yields  no  word  that  thou   hast  spoken, 

No  smile   of    thine  hath  distance  power  to  dim  ; 
In  love's   bright  chain  no  single  link  is  broken, 

And  still   thy  name  is  beauty's  synonym  : 
I  sleep,  and  lo  !    my  dreams   are  all   elysian, 

Filled   with  thy   presence  like  informing  flame  ; 
I  wake,  and  still  one  beatific  vision 

Smiles  through   the  spaces,  evermore  the  same. 

Bid  me  not  cease  to  love  thee  !    though  I  never 
May  hope   to   win   an  answering  love  from   thee  ; 

Thine,  beyond   ransom  —  thine  .to-day,  forever, 
Dearer  than   freedom  such  sweet  bonds   to   me  ; 


DESTINY.  123 

The  radiant  morning  and  the  dewy  evening, 
The  solemn  night  with  myriad  stars  above, 

The  infinite  sea,  the  all-embracing  heaven, 

With   their  weird   voices  bid  me  still   to  love  ! 


No  more  I  ask  thee  to  return  my  passion, 

Nor  of   thy   pity  aught  do  I   implore  ; 
For  hopeless  love,  sublimed   to  adoration, 

Lifts  the  sad  soul  to   heights  unknown  before, 
And    braids    its    gloom   with  sunbeams  !    Gloom   and 
glory  — 

A  troubled  joy  —  a  passionate  unrest, 
Why.   this   is  life!  —  the  old  pathetic   story, 

Through  love  and  joy  and   sorrow  manifest. 


AGATHA. 

Were  her  face  as  dusk  as   twilight, 

When   the  soft  September  eves 
Darken  slowly  in   the  shadow 

Till  the  daybeam   is  no  more, 
I  would  make  her  blaze  with  jewels, 

As  the  night,  when  it  receives 
One  by  one  the  starry  splendors, 

Sprinkling  all   the  heavens  o'er  : 
Diamonds  from  her  ebon   tresses 

Should  outflash   their  living  light ; 
On   her  fingers,  rubies,   sapphires, 

Gems  of   loveliest  hue  should  gleam  ; 
O,  but  I   would  make  her  glorious 

As  the  star-encinctured  night ! 
O,   but  I  would  make  her  lovelier 

Than  the  poet's  fondest  dream  ! 

But  her  brow  is  fair  as  morning 
When  no  mists  its  beauty  shroud  ; 

And  her  shining  auburn  ringlets 
Like  a  sun-lit  torrent  fall 

Down  the  dainty  neck   whose  whiteness 


AGATHA.  125 

Gleaming  through  a  golden  cloud, 
Seems  a  snow-wreath  in   the   splendor 

That   the  day   flings  over  all ! 
O,  her  eyes   were  made  to  worship, 

With  their  depths  of   heavenly  blue  ! 
O.  her  mouth   was   made  for  kisses, 

With  its  dewy-luscious  lips! 
And  the  heaven   of   her  caresses, 

Warm   and   passionate  and  true, 
Fills  me   with  delirious  rapture, 

Thrilling  to  my  finger-tips. 

Were   her  name  a  mark  for  slander, 

Hissing  out  its  venomed   lies, 
Till   the   world,  with  face  averted, 

Smote  her  with  its  cruel  scorn, 
J.  against  a   mad   world's  clamor, 

Would  believe  those   holy  eyes,  — 
Mirror  of    a  soul   where  only 

White  and  starry   thoughts  are   born  ! 
I    would   build  my  faith   around   her 

Like  a  fortress  of   defense, 
From  the  malice  of   the  evil. 

From   the   meanness   of   the   proud  ; 
I    would  lavish   love  upon  her, 

Self-forgetting  and  intense, 
Till    the    light   of   joy   should    BCatter 

From    her   pathway,   every    cloud  I 


126  AGATHA. 

But  the  evil  tongue  is  palsied 

That  would  dare  to  wrong  her  name ; 
And  for  her  the  lip  of  cursing 

Can   speak  nothing  but  a  prayer ; 
Even  envy  casts  no  shadow 

O'er  the  whiteness  of  her  fame, 
For  the  angels  guard  their  sister 

With  a  proud  and  loving  care! 
O,   I  love  her  for  her  beauty, 

Brighter  than   the  poet's  dreams 
When  elysian  splendors  haunt  him 

And   his  life  is   most  divine  ! 
O,   I   love  her  for  her  goodness, 

For  the  gentle  soul  that  seems 
Kindred   with   the  star-crowned   spirits, 

For  the  pledge  that  makes  her  mine! 


FORSAKEN. 

I  curse   thee    not,  —  though    thou    hast    breathed  a 
blight 

Over   my   life   and   quenched  its  joy  forever. 
Henceforth   I    walk  'rnid  shadows  of    a  night 

Whose   veil  of   darkness  shall  be  lifted  never. 
I   blame  thee  not,  —  though  sweet  repose   was  mine 

Till   at   thy   bidding  passionate  emotion 
Surged    through     my   heart,   which    madly  leaped    to 
thine 

As  to  the  moon   the  billows  of    the  ocean. 

There   was  a  witchery  in   thy   very  speech, 

That    while   I  listened    filled    my  soul    with    glad- 
ness, 
And  its  sweet  subtleties  were  skilled   to  teach 

The  bliss  of  love  —  I  wake    to   know  its   madness. 
Thy   words   were  poison,  but  I  drank   them   in 

With   a  delicious  joy,  so  fair   their   seeming, 
As,  through  temptation,  step  by  step,  to  sin 

They  led  me  on,  bewildered  in   my  dreaming. 


128  FORSAKEN. 

O   wily    tempter  !    had   I  guessed   that   wrong 

Lurked  beneath  words  breathed  forth  so  musically, 
Then  hud  the  silvery  accents  of   thy  tongue 

Been  trumpet  voices  all  my  fears  to  rally. 
So  thou   the  guilt,  and  I  the  woe  and  shame 

Haply  had   reaped  alike :    thrice  fatal  folly  ! 
How   with  dishonor  has  it  linked   my  name, 

And  made   my  heart  the  home  of  melancholy  ! 

Yet  I  reproach  thee  not,  though  thou   hast  brought 

Despair  unto  a  heart  that  loved  thee  oirly  ! 
Go  —  and  forget  the  ruin   thou  Jhast  wrought, 

The  spirit  crushed  and  desolate  and  lonely  ; 
Smile  to  thy  young   wife's  smile,  and  breathe  to   her 

Love's  thrilling  words   to  me  so  often   spoken, 
And  'mid   thy  gladness  let  no   thought  recur 

To  the  fond  heart  thou  hast  betrayed  and  broken. 


A    BIRTH-DAY   TRIBUTE. 

(to   c.   b.) 

Among  these  heart-gifts  is  there  room  for  mine  ? 

Or  may  I  dare,   with  stammering  utterance, 

Give  to   weak  words   the  thoughts  by  thee  inspired  ? 

If   all  of  best  in  what  I   wish  for  thee, 

If  all   of  grandest  in  my  hope   for  thee, 

If   all  of   tenderest  in  my  love  for  thee 

Could  be  translated  into  verse  of   mine, 

Then  verse  of   mine  should  thus  be  worthy  thee, 

And  tell  how  good  the  good  I  ask  for  thee, 

How  grand  the  hope  I  dare  to  hope  for  thee. 

How  reverent  the  love  I  keep  for  thee, 

How  childly  credent  my   true  faith  in   thee  ; 

And  the  sweet  thought  that  is  its  rhythmic  soul, 

Wedded  to  rhythmic  words  as  subtle   sweet, 

Should  make  its  music  as  the  chime  of   stars 

When  they  all   sing  together,  keeping  time 

To  the  glad  shoutings  of   the  sons  of  God  ! 

Vain   the  desire,  the  aspiration   vain, 

To  link   the  passion  of  my  inmost  life, 

The  subtlest   thoughts   that  breathe    within  my  soul 

To  outward  speech  ;    the   faltering  syllables 


130  A  BIRTH-DAY    TRIBUTE 

Sink  into  silence,  when  they  fain   would  give 
Expression  to  the  faith  so  full  of   thee. 
No  verse  can  reach  the  level  of  thy  worth, 
Nor  voice  the  homage  my  heart  pays  to  thee, 
Nor  sum  the  trust  that  finds  response  in  thee. 
And  growing   thus  to  tenderest  reverence, 
Gives   to  my   soul   the  seal  of   sanctity. 
Let  it  content  me,  therefore,  that  thy  heart 
Can   read  the  wordless  mystery  of  mine  ; 
And,  made  through  love  interpreter  of  love, 
Know  all  the  sweetness  of    my  thought, 
And  how  that  thought  is  vital  with  my  faith, 
And  how  that  faith  says  "  I  believe  in   thee." 


AT    THE    GOAL. 

I  journeyed  many  a  weary  mile, 

And   when    the  day   was  almost  past, 
Beside  a  cottage-gate  I  stood 
And  said,  "  The  goal  at  last !  " 

Bright  eyes   will  flash  with   brighter  beam, 

A  voice  of    music  sweeter  be" 
(So  my  thought  shaped  itself  in   words) 
"To-night,   because  of  -me." 

Up  the  smooth  walk  I  passed,  and  heard 
The  faint  breeze  in   the  maples  stir, 

And   the   birds  singing ;    then  I  stooped 
To  pluck  a  rose  for  her. 

The  door  swung  open,  and  a  face 

Beamed   welcome ;    not  the   face   I    sought, 

But   sweet   and   kind    withal,  yet  grave 
With    BOITOW   or   with   thought; 

A  face  beloved — yet,  in   its   lines, 
As  it  came  nearer  and  more  near 


132  AT    TEE  GOAL. 

A  sad,  pathetic,  tender  look 
That  filled  my  soul  with  fear. 

With  sudden  impulse  —  u  Evelyn  — 

Some  ill  to  her  ?  —  speak  quick  !  "  I  said 

One  word,  sobbed  out  from  quivering  lips, 
Came  like  a  death-shot  ....   "Dead/" 

Sad  monosyllable  !    ....  a  breath 

But  half-articulate,  and  heard 
By  the  heart  rather  than  the  ear  — 

What  power  was  in   that  word  ! 

A  power  to  curdle   the  warm  blood 

And   press  like  ice  the  throbbing  brain, 

And  send  through  every  fluttering  pulse 
The  fiery  darts  of   pain ! 

Mute,  motionless,  with  parted  lips, 
And  eyes  that  stared  on   vacancy, 

I  stood  —  and  felt  the  ebbing  tide 
That  bore  all  life   from  me. 

But  soon  a  hand  was  laid  on  mine 
With  O,  such  pity  in  its  press, 

It  seemed  to  win  my  spirit  back 
From  utter  desertness : 


AT   THE   GOAL.  133 

So,  yielding  half   unconsciously 

To  its  soft  guidance,   I   was  led 
To  the  dim  chamber   where  she  lay  — 
My  beautiful  ....  my  dead! 

Pale  flowers  grew  paler  in   the  hands 
So  meekly  folded  o'er  her  breast. 

And  all  sweet  thoughts   that  stirred  her  heart 
Were,  with  that  heart,  at  rest. 

The  soft  light  of  her  loving  eyes 

Had  faded  in  a  drear  eclipse, 
And  silence  hushed  for  evermore 

The  music  of  her  lips. 

O,  very  fair  beneath  her  hair, 

Seen  through  its  cloud  of  clustering   goM, 
Her  forehead,  like  a  marble  saint's, 

Gleamed  beautiful  and  cold  ! 

Yet  over  all  there  lingered  still 

Some  traces  of  a  heavenly  light  — 
The  gleam,  perchance,  of  angel-wing 

Flung  backward  from    their   flight. 

As  with  the  sinless  soul  they  cleft 
Their  luminous  pathway  to  the  b1 

While   angel-voices   filled   the  air 
With   soir's   of  Paradise  ! 


134  AT   THE  GOAL. 

But  our  dull  ears  are  slow  to  hear 
Aught  save  the  rustle  of   the  pall, 

As  through  our  tears  we  see  decay 
Steal  darkly  over  all ; 

And  visions  of   the  sunless  grave, 

With  the  sad  change  that  there   is   wrought, 

Taunt  us  with  our  mortality, 
And   wed  to  dust  our  thought. 

We  think  not  how  that  dust  shall  rise 
To  star  the  sodden  grave  with  flowers. 

Whose  grace  shall  gladden  other  eyes, 
As  hers  hath  gladdened  ours. 

We  think  not  with  what   loving  care 
Nature  preserves  her  mystic  clews, 

And  in  a  thousand  glorious  forms 
Her  perished  life  renews. 

We  think  not  in  our  selfish  woe, 

How,  freed  from  every  mortal   taint, 

She  lives,  whom  we  bewail  as  dead, 
Still  ours  —  though  crowned  a  saint ! 

Not  lost  to  us,  nor  lost  to  love  — 
A  living,  conscious,  sentient  soul, 

Before  us  passed  within   the  veil, 
And  earlier  at  the  goal. 


AT  THEZGOAL.  135 

Dear   God  !    if   our  wild  sobs  prevail 
To  drown  thy  loving  voice  awhile, 

If   through   their  tears,  our  eyes  catch  not 
The  sunlight  of   thy  smile  — 

Forgive  our  atheist  grief!  and  "Peace!' 
Say,  softly,  to  our   passions'  strife ; 

Say,  gently,  "  Wrong  not  death !  'tis  but 
The  vestibule  of   Life!" 


WITHIN  THE    VEIL. 

I  said  once:    "Dark  and  cold  — 
Ah !    cold   and  dark  the  grave  to  which  we  tend, 
Where  lover  parts  from  lover,  friend  from  friend, 

And  life's  brief   tale  is  told 
With  its  pathetic  ending  —  '  Dust  to  dust !  '  " 
Now,  with  a  new-born  faith  and  loveful  trust  — 

I  say :    "  The  grave  is  blest ! 
O,  call  it  dark  no  more,  since  she  is  laid 
In   its  still  depths,  whose  life  a  sunshine  made 

In  good  deeds  manifest, 
To  cheer  the  gloom  of   sorrow  and  despair, 
And  pour  its  bright  beams  round  her  everywhere.' 

She  taught  us  how  to  live  ! 
Her  blameless  life,  from  mean  ambitions   free, 
That  loved  the  right  it  dared  to  do  and   be, 

Lessons  sublime  did  give 
Of   a  true  nobleness  —  for  all  that  shone 
Sunlike  in  saintly  souls  she  made  her  own! 


WlTHINi  THE  VEIL.  137 

She  taught  us  how  to  die  ! 
With  what  a  holy  joy  aside  she  flung 
The  body's  bondage,  and  exulting  sprung 

To  immortality  ! 
Who  then   should  fear  to  tread,  as  she   hath   trod, 
The  path  through  death,  that  leadeth  unto   God  ! 

O,  grave  !  a  sacred  trust 
To  thee  is  given  !     No  common  ashes  sleep 
Within   thy  guardian  arms  !      Sacredly  keep 

This  consecrated  dust, 
Till,  quickened   with  new  life,  it  shall  arise, 
A  glorious  body,  fitted  for  the  skies  ! 


THE   EARLY    DEAD. 

Passed  from  our  sight,  within   the  veil, 
Still  compassed  by  the   Father's  care, 

Why  should  our  hearts  their  loss  bewail, 
And  sorrow  darken   to  despair  ? 

In  the  fresh  morning  of   their  life, 

While  faith  and  love  glowed  pure  and  warm, 
Called  to  the  guerdon  from  the  strife, 

To  the  safe  haven  from  the  storm  — 

They  breathe  the  fragrance  of   the  flowers 
From  the  fair  groves  of    Eden  shed  — 

Still  ours,  though  gone  before,  still   ours 
Are  they  we  call  the  Early   Dead. 

Beyond  the  reach  of   earthly   ill, 

They  see  our  grief,  yet  not  condemn  ; 

And  loving  us  are  conscious  still 
Of   all  the  love  we  feel  for  them. 

Not    theirs  the  haunting  fear  that   throws 
Its  shadow  o'er  our  spirits  here, 


THE   EARLY  DEAD.  139 

But   perfect  trust  and  sweet   repose 
In   heaven's  unclouded  atmosphere. 

Not  theirs  the  bitter  sob  that  speaks, 

The  heart  that  bleeds  o'er   severed  ties, — 

No  tear-drops  glisten  on   the  cheeks 
Fanned  by   the  airs  of   Paradise  ! 

Not  theirs  the   weary  war  with  sin. 
The  conflict  with   temptation's  lures  ; 

The  perfect  rest  they  enter  in, 

Like  the  dear  love  of    God,  endures. 

O,  better  thus  than  still  to  know 

The  doubts  that  darken  day   by  day, 

And  all  the  care  and  grief  which  throw 
Their  shadows  o'er  our   pilgrim  way. 

For  they  are  safe.     Our  feet  may  rove, 
Wide  straying  from  the  narrow   path  — 

They   walk  in   light,  upheld   by   love, 
Nor  power  to  harm  the  tempter  hath. 

Our  hopes  may  fail,  but  theirs  have  found 

Fruition   in   their  home   on  high  ; 
We   still    must  strive,  but   they   are  crowned 

With   life  and  immortality  ! 


140  THE  EARLY  DEAD. 

Weep  not  for  them,  though  few  the  years 
Their  faltering  feet  life's  pathway   trod  ; 

Faith  whispers,  as  we  dry  our  tears, 

"  The  .pure    m    heart  shall  dwell  with 
God  ! " 


THE    CHILD    ANGEL. 

Lilt-white  her  skin, 

Violets  are  her  eye9, 
And  their  depths  within, 

Love,  unconscious,  lies  ; 
Every  ray  that  beams 

From  those  orbs  of   blue, 
Lights  a  world  of   dreams, 

Tender,  warm,  and  true. 

Sweeter  than  the  blooms 

Of  the  spicy   South, 
Is  the  breath  that  comes 

From  her  rosy  mouth  ; 
Never  song  of   birds 

Could  delight  me  so, 
As  her   baby   word-, 

Murmured  soft    and  low. 

How  the  love-light   plays 
O'er  her  forehead  fair  ! 

I  Lav   the  golden   i 
Glorify  her  hair  ! 


142  THE   CniLD  ANGEL. 

How   the  dimples  small 
Twinkle  round  her  face ! 

How  are  fashioned  all 
To  the  law  of  grace  ! 

When   my  darling's  voice 

With   its  glad   refrain 
Makes  the  air  rejoice, 

I   forget  my   pain  ; 
When  its   tender  trills 

Speak  her  love  aright, 
All  my  spirit  thrills 

With  a  keen  delight. 

Life  is  more  divine, 

With  a  fuller  bliss, 
When  her  lips  to  mine 

Press  their  loving  kiss. 
I  can  better  meet 

Sorrow,  pain,   and  care, 
When  her  little  feet 

Patter  round  my  chair. 

More  can  I  discern 
In  her  guileless  looks, 

Better  wisdom  learn, 

Than  from  wisest  books. 


THE   CHILD  ANGEL.  143 

God!    accept  my  thanks 

For  this  angel  given, 
Though  the  shining  ranks 

Miss   her,  up  in  heaven  ! 


MARY. 

(M.   E.  £. —  SEPTEMBER    28,    1863.) 

Sweetest  name  that  ever  crowned  a  woman, 
Mingling  with  it  the  divine  and  human  — 
Name  with   light  enhaloed  since  it  won  a 
Sanctifjdng  grace  from  the  Madonna ! 

All  we  know  of   love's  ecstatic  sweetness, 
All  we  deem  of   womanhood's  completeness, 
Pities,  hopes,  and  helpful  tendernesses, 
To  my  heart  that  simple  name  expresses. 

And  to  me  'tis  linked  with  inward  beauty, 
Faith  in  right  and  loyalty  to  duty, 
Gracious  household  ways  and  faithful  loving, 
That  rebuke  our  waywardness  and  roving. 

So,  for  these,  I  shrine  the  name  of   Mary 
In   my  heart  as  in  a  sanctuary  — 
Shrine  it  there  with  every  pure  emotion 
Born  of   love,  of   sorrow,  or  devotion. 


mar  r.  145 

Dear  for  these  ;  but  infinitely  dearer 
For  a  memory  sweeter,  sacUler,  nearer  — 
All  my  days    with  tender  twilight  shading, 
Yet  with   brightness  all  my  soul   pervading. 

One  to  whom  that  holy  name  was  given 
Smiles  upon   me  from  her  home  in   heaven  ; 
In   my   hours  of   quiet  and  of   dreaming, 
Smiles  upon  me  with  an   angel  seeming. 

O,  the  treasures  of   which  death  bereft  us  ! 

O,  the  precious  memories   God  has  left  us  ! 

O,  the  sorrow  in  our  hearts   that  dwelleth ! 

O,  the  joyful  faith  that  there  upwelleth  ! 

Through  our  sobs  shall  break  our  glad  thanksgiv- 
ing 
That  all  life   seems  holier  for  her  living, 
And  the  grave  itself   the  shining  portal 
Through  which  she  passed  into  the  life  immortal. 

Home  seems  hallowed,  since  her  evanescence, 
By   the  sacred  memory  of   her  presence, 
Shedding  evermore   the   light  of   beauty 
O'er  the  dark  and   rugged  paths  of   duty. 

For  her  life   was  like  a  glad  evangel 
With   its  bright  revealings  of    the  angel  ; 
10 


146  MARY. 

And  her  death,  with  solemnizing  sweetness, 
Gave  that  life  its  beautiful  completeness. 

Thanks  to  God  !  His  tender  benediction 
Calms  the  tumult  of  our  great  affliction, 
And  our  eyes,  albeit  in  tearful  blindness, 
Read  the  record  of   His  loving  kindness  — 

Pierce,  at  length,  through  all   the  tangled  tissues 
Of   our  doubts,  to  life's  sublimer  issues, 
Till  we  learn   how  all  things  blend  benignly 
In  His  plan  whose  work  is  wrought  divinely. 


THE    FLOWER-BRINGER. 

A  gentle  child,  within  whose  sunny  eyes 

Twelve  summers    have    bestowed    their    light,  and 

wrought 
Haply  upon  her  brow  some  shades  of  thought  — 
The   faint  adumbra  of   that  life   which   lies 
In   the  far  future   with   its  mysteries  ; 

A  happy  child,  amid  whose  pleasant  fancies 
Rose-hues  are  braided   and  the  hope-light  dances, 
And  o'er  them  gleams  the  light  of   Paradise  : 
Such  is  the  little  friend  I  love  so  well, 
My  pretty,  precious,  laughing,  loving  Belle, 
Who  brings  me  roses  —  but  herself   is  fairer, 
Nor  blooms  in  Nature's  bowers  a  lovelier,  rarer. 

I  call  her  Rose,  for  her  surpassing  sweetness  ; 

]   call  her   Lily,  too,  for  she  is  fair, 
Fragile,  and  all-unconscious  of   her  meetness 

To  be  described   by  loveliest  things  that  are  ; 
I   call  her   Bird,  for  words  drop  musically 

From  her  red  lips  in  sweetest  modulations  ; 

I  call  her  Angel,  for  her  ministrations 
Are  pure,  unselfish,  loveful :    every  sally 


148  THE  FL0WER-BR1NGER. 

Of   her  bright  spirit  make  us  feel  its  nearness 

To   all  we  know  of  Heaven  —  its  love,  its  clearness 

From  taint  of   sin  or  sorrow. 

Yet  my  fancy 
No  single  grace  of   girlhood's  necromancy 
Takes  for  the  names  it  gives ;   but,  best  of   all, 

I  love  my   Flower,  my  Angel,  that  the  Human 
Looks  tenderly  from  out  her  large  brown  eyes, 
With  hopes  and  fears  and  half-dreamed  prophecies 

Of   cares  and  sorrows  that  await  the  woman,  — 
Her  heritage,  priests  tell  us,  since  the  Fall. 

O,  dearest  child  !    so  nestled  to  my  heart, 

Whose  strongest  tendrils  have   around  thee  grown ! 
Not  mine,  yet  loved  as  fathers  love  their  own ! 
My  sweet  Flower- Angel  !    thy  unconscious  art 
Hath  lured    my  soul,  for    many  an  hour,  from    sad- 
ness — 
Hath  filled  my  soul,  for  many  an  hour,  with    glad- 
ness ! 
Therefore  I  bless  thee  I    and,  that  thou  art  good, 
And  that  thy  heart  with  kind    thoughts  overflow 
eth, 
And  that  for  love  I  owe  thee  gratitude, 

And    that  I  love    thee,  child,  as    my  verse    show- 
eth, 
I  weave  my  blessing  in  this  rhyme  for  thee  ! 
And  so  —  farewell ! 


THE  FLOWER-BRINGER.  149 

Whate'er  my  future  be, 
Or  dark,  or  bright,  I  shall   not  soon   forget 

The   innocent  love  that  cheered  me  in   the  hours 
That  else  had  been   too  sad  —  the    gifts    of   flow- 
ers 
Brought  by   thy  bonnie  hand,   my  dove-eyed   pet ! 
For,   though   the  roses  fade,  not   thus  shall   part 
The  fragrance  of   thy  kindness  from  my   heart. 


THE    OLD. 

Give  me  old  songs  —  though  rude  and  bold, 

Yet  sparkling  with   the  purest  gold  ; 

Such  as  were  syllabled  in  fire 

When  "  rare   Ben  Jonson  "  swept  the  lyre ; 

And  touches  of  his  master-hand 

Went  vibrating  through  all  the  land, 

©  ©  7 

And  found  in  every  heart  a  tone 
That  seemed  an  echo  of   its  own. 

Give  me  old  books  —  the  tomes  where  mind 
Its  choicest  treasures  hath  enshrined, 
Rich  with  the   thoughts  of   buried  seers 
Whose  genius  glorified  their  years  ; 
Old  books,  well-thumbed  and  vellum-bound, 
The  wise,  the  witty,   the  profound, 
Whose  stained  and  ample  pages  hold 
A  rarer  wealth  than  gems  or  gold. 

Give  me  old  paths  —  though  few  the  blooms 
That  drug  the  senses  with  perfumes, 
And  few  the  siren-notes  that  keep 
A  chime  to  steps  that  climb  the  steep ; 


TIIE    OLD.  151 

Old  paths,  though  rugged,  brightening  still 
"With   golden   gleams  from   Ziou's   Hill  — 
By  patriarchs  and  prophets   trod, 
And  leading  to  the  mount  of    God ! 

Give  me  old  friends  —  the  tried  of   years, 
Whose  soul  is  in   their  smiles  and   tears  ; 
Though  rough   of    speech,  and  void  of   art, 
Yet  frank  and  bold  and  leal  of   heart ; 
With   steady  faith   and  soul  serene, 
Scorning  the  hollow,  false,  and   mean  ; 
With  open   brow  and    honest  eye,  — 
Their  patent  of  uobility. 

Then,  in  some  mansion  old   and  grim, 
Embowered  by  woods   whose   twilight  dim 
Hallows   the  noonday,  let  me  bide, 
The  ebb  of   life's  tumultuous  tide  ; 
My  passions  hushed   in   deep  repose, 
P^orget  ambition  and  its   woes  ; 
In  calmness  wait,  till   Death  enfold 
A   heart  that's   weary,  worn,  and  old. 


LILIAN. 

My  little  maiden  Lilian, 

Her  blue  eyes  filled   with  tender  light, 
Just  now,  adown  the  garden  path, 

Went  flashing  like  a  sprite  ; 

And  something  in  the  words  she  said, 
And  something  in  her  pleasant  smile, 

Flooded  my  soul  with  happy  thoughts 
That  linger  yet  awhile. 

A   winsome  lass  is   Lilian, 

And  beautiful  of   form  and  face, 

And  all  the   motions  of  her  limbs 
Obey  the  law  of  grace. 

Her  eyes,  that  change  from  blue  to  gray, 
As  tides  of   feeling  sink  or  swell, 

Are  full  of   gentle  loves  and   joys, 
Such  as   with  childhood  dwell  ; 

And  yet,  at  times,  within  their  depths, 
A  shadow,  half-defined,  appears, 


LILIAN.  153 

As  if   the  prescient  soul  had  caught 
A  glimpse  of   darker  years. 

The  sunlight,  like  a  prisoner,  lies 

Tangled    amid  her  golden  hair, 
And,  rippling  from  sweet  lips,  her  voice 

Makes  musical  the  air. 

She   sings  beside  the  singing  streams 
With  sweeter  cadences  than  they  ; 

And   gives   the  blackbird,  for  his  song, 
A  wilder  roundelay. 

She  knows  the  violets'  secret  haunts, 

Where,   from   cleft  rocks,  their  starry  eyes 

Look  up,    as  if    to  catch  from  hers 
The  blue  of   lovelier  skies  — 

And  where,  from  man's  intrusive  gaze, 

Hide  the  pale  wood  anemones, 
And  nameless  blooms,  as  fair  as  they, 

Beneatli   the  ancient  trees. 

"  Though   God's  dear  love,"  she  says,  "  is  shown 
In   shining  sun   and  falling  showers, 
I  think   He  puts,  for  little  folks, 
His  sweetest  thoughts  in   flowers.*' 


154  LILIAN. 

And  she  is  right  !  her  teachers   they, 
That  tell  her  evermore  of   Him  ; 

And  temple,  priest,  and  choir,  for  her 
Are  in  the  wood-paths  dim. 

And  so,  from  Nature's  soul  to  hers 
Flow  inspirations   undefiled, 

And  id  a  world  of  happy  thoughts 
She  lives,  a  happy  child. 


THE    LITTLE    GIRL'S    SOXG. 

I've  a  darling  little  Dolly,  and    her  eyes  are  black 
as  sloes  ; 
She  lounges  on  the  sofa  night  and  day, 
And  never  cares  a  baubee  for  the  mending    of    her 
clo'es, 
Nor  quarrels  with  the  children    at  their  play. 
O,  my  bonnie  Dolly  May, 
How  I  love  you  all  the  day  ! 
How   I  prattle  to,  and  kiss  you  !  —  none  the  less, 
That  I  can  but  feel  the  lack 
When  you  never  kiss   me  back, 
Nor  caressingly  return  my  caress. 

Though  my  Dolly  is  a  beauty,  she  is  neither  proud 
nor  vain  ; 
Will  never  like  Miss  Shallow,  put  on  airs  ; 
But  a  quiet   little  lady  she  will  evermore  remain, 
Undisturbed  by  our  troubles  and  our  cares. 
O,  my   darling    Dolly   May 
Is   the  sharer  of    my   play, 


156  THE  LITTLE  GIRVS  SONG. 

And  her  eyes  seem  to  watch  me  as  they  roll, 

Like  a  living  baby's  eyes, 

With  a  questioning  surprise, 
Till  it  seems  as  if   Dolly  had  a  soul. 

She's  older  than  her    mamma  —  funny,  isn't    it  ?  — 
and  queer? 
But  she  never  disobeys  me,  though  'tis  so  ; 
Nor  pouts  while  I  reprove  her,  nor  squeezes  out  a 
tear 
With    her     knuckles,  like    some    little    girls    you 
know. 

O,  my  pretty  Dolly  May ! 
I  shall  sorrow  for  the  day 
When  the  fancies  of   my  childhood  all  are  o'er, 
And  the  older  people  say, 
"  O,  fie !    you  mustn't  play, 
Such  a  lady  !    with    your  Dolly  any  more ! " 


MARRIED. 

Ocr  beautiful   Maggie   was  married  to-day  — 
Beautiful  Maggie,  with  soft,  brown  hair, 
Whose  shadows  fall  o'er  a  face  as  fair 

As  the  suowy  blooms  of   the  early   May  ; 

We  have  kissed  her  lips  and  sent  her  away, 
With  many  a  blessing  and  many  a  prayer, 

The  pet  of   our  house  who  was  married  to-day. 

The  sunshine  is  gone  from  the  old  south  room. 

Where  she  sat  through  the    long,  bright    summer 
hours  ; 

And  the  odor  is  gone  from  the   window  flowers, 
And  something  is  lost  of   their  delicate  bloom  ; 
And  a  shadow  creeps  over  the  house  with  its  gloom 

A  shadow   that  over  our   Paradise   lowers, 
For  we  see  her  no  more  in  the  old  south  room. 

I  thought  that  the  song  of   the  robin,  this  eve, 
Afl    he   sang   to  his   mate  on   the  sycamore   tree, 
Hud  minors  of   sadness  to  temper  its  glee, 
As  if   he  for  the  loss  of  our  darling  did  grieve, 
And  asked,  4*  Where    is    Maggie  ?  "    and,   u  Why   did 
she   leave  ? 


158  MARRIED. 

The  maiden   who  caroled  sweet  duets  with  me  ? ' 
For  she  mocked  not  the  song  of  the  robin  this  eve. 

The    pictures    seem    dim    where    they  hang    on    the 
wall : 
Though  they  cost  but  a  trifle,  they  always  looked 

fair, 
Whether    lamplight    or    sunlight    illumined    them 
there ; 
I  think  'twas  her  presence  that  brightened  them  all  : 
Since  Maggie  no  longer  can  come  to  our  call, 

With  her    eyes    full    of   laughter,  unshadowed    by 
care, 
The    pictures    seem    dim  where    they  hang    on     the 
wall. 

I    lounge    through     the    garden  —  I    stand    by    the 
gate; 
She  stood    there    to    meet    me    last    eve,    at    this 

hour,  m 

Every  eve,  through    the    summer,  in    sunshine    or 
shower, 
Just  stood  by  the  postern   my  coming  to  wait, 
Dear  Maggie,  her  heart  with  its  welcome  elate, 

To  give  me  a  smile,  and  a  kiss,  and  a  flower : 
Ah  !    when  will  she  greet  me  again  by  the  gate  ? 


MARRIED.  159 

She  loved  us  and  left  u^  ;  she  loves,  and  is  gone 
With  the    one    she    loves    best,  as    his    beautiful 

bride ! 
How  fondly  he  called   her  his  joy  and  his  pride, 
Our  joy  and  our  pride,  whom  he  claims  as  his  own  ! 
But  can  he,  like  us,  prize  the  heart  he  has  won  — 
The  heart  that  now  trustingly  throbs  by  his  side  ? 
God  knows  !    and    we  know   that  —  she  loves,  and  is 
gone  ! 


POSSESSION. 

The   sweetest  word  that  ever  was  heard  — 

From  the  sweetest  lips  the  sweetest  word 

Has  brimmed  my  heart  to  its  overflow 

With  a  bliss  as  pure  as  the  angels  know  ; 

And  my  soul,  so  long  bowed  sadly  down, 

Assumes  the  sceptre  and   the  crown, 

And  rises  up  with  a  regal  will  ! 

O,  fateful  word  !    my  life  to   fill 

With  a  larger  life  and  more  divine  ; 

For  it  makes  me  hers  and  it  makes  her  mine, 

And  brings  again  to  our  unsealed  eyes 

The  beauty  and  glory  of   Paradise ! 

The  earth  so  fair  seems  fairer  far, 

And  a  holier  light   have   sun  and  star  ; 

The  blue  of   the  sky  is  more  divine, 

And  a  deeper  music  is  in   the  pine ; 

The   wave  that  breaks  on  the  pebbly  shore 

Hath  a  murmur  of  love  ne'er  heard  before, 

And  the  brooks  laugh  out  with  a  merrier  glee 

As    they  flash    through    the    valleys    away    to    the 

sea  — 
For  Nature  feels  to  the  inmost  core 


POSSESSION.  161 

Of   her  great  warm  heart   the  joy   that  thrills 
Through   the  life   that  love  with  its  new  life  fills, 
Since  she,  the  lass  of   the  golden  tress, 
Wearing  the  crown  of   her  loveliness, 
My  beautiful   Bess,  my  "good  queen   Bess," 
Hath  spoken   the   word  that  makes  her  more  — 
That  makes  her  dearer  than  ever  before  ; 
That  makes  her  mine  to  love  and  adore 
For  ever  and  ever  and  evermore  I 

What  a  glow  of   light  on  the  grasses  lay ; 

What  music  stirred  in  the  tasseled  corn  ; 
What  fragrance  breathed  from  the  new-mown  hay, 

As  over  the  fields  I  passed  at  morn  ! 
The  birds  were  as  merry  as  birds  could  be, 
As   they  sung  and  flew  from  tree  to  tree  ; 
I  am  sure  their  songs  were  meant  for  me, 
For  they  must  have  seen,  with  a  glad  surprise, 
The  soft  love-light  that  brimmed  mine  eyes, 
And   the  new-born  bliss  within  my  soul  : 
For  its  depths  were  stirred  by  a  single  word 
From  faltering  lips  half-guessed,  half-heard, 
And  a  gush  of  joy  beyond  control, 
A  keen,  sharp  joy  that  half   seemed  pain, 
With   its  sudden  light  filled  all  my  brain 
(I  think   'twill  never  be  dark  again), 
As  a  hand  dropt,  trembling,  into  mine, 
And  a  sweet,  low  voice  ju-t  murmured  —  "  Thine  !  " 
11 


YOU    AND   I. 

You   and  I  —  You  and  1 1 
The  words  go  chiming  through  my  brain, 
I  murmur  them  over  and  over  Rgain  ; 
I  murmur  them  softly,  I  scarce  know  why, 
When  only  the  angels   who  love  me  hear, 
And  the  dearest  angel  of   all  seems  near, 
With  her  luminous  eyes  looking  love  into  mine  — 
With  her  large,  dark  eyes,  whose  depths  divine 
Are  filled  to  the  brim   with  tendernesses  ; 
And    my    brow,  where    the    hot    blood    throbs    and 


Partly  with    thought  and  partly  with  pain, 

To  an  unseen  hand's  unseen  caresses 

Yields,  for  an  hour,  its  fever  heats. 

And   wears  the  smooth  front  of  its  childhood  again. 


You  and  I  —  You  and  I ! 
What  if   either  of   us  should  die  ? 
Could  the  hearts  that  have  loved  so  tenderly 
Be  severed  by  death  ?     Not  so  —  not  so  ! 
My  soul  leans  out  from  its  house  of   clay 
When  the  breeze  that    has  fanned    your  cheek  goes 

by, 


YOU  AND  I.  163 

And  says,  u  She  is  near !    I  feel  the  touch 
Of  her  lip  to  mine  !  of  her  hand,  at   play 
With   my  hair,  as  it  did   when,  long  ago, 
We  sat  in   the  hush  of  summer  eves, 
Saying  but  little,  yet  loving  much. 
And   believing  all  that  love  believes." 
And  so   I   know,  whatever  may  list, 
Our  souls  shall  keep  their  holy  tryst 
Through  all  the  years  of   the  life   to  be ; 
They  shall  meet  and  clasp  and   intertwine. 
And  quaff   of   Love's  delicious   wine, 
Till,  filled  and   thrilled  with   a  bliss  divine, 
They  float,  like  halcyons,  over  the  sea 
That  laves  thy  shores,  Eternity ! 
Keeping  their  tryst  whatever  may  list, 
Through  all  the  years  of   the  life  to  be. 

You  and  I  —  You  and  I ! 
We  have  drank  of  the  cup  which  Joy  hath  blessed, 
And  Youth  hath   brimmed  to  its  overflow  ; 
And  a  sterner  hand  to  our  lips  hath   pressed 
The  bitter  sacrament  of   woe  ! 
Yet,  whether  the  sunshine  bright  and   warm, 
Or  the  gelid  breath  of   the  winter  storm. 
Be  over  our  path  and   in  our   sky, 
One  thing,   whatever  is  false  beside, 
My  soul  accepts  as  a  verity  : 
Though  youth,  with   its   lustihood   and   pride, 


164  YOU  AND  I. 

And  the  stern  ambitions  of   life's  full  prime, 

And  the  greeds  which  delve    and    the    hopes    which 

climb, 
Shall  fail,  and  the  life-tide,  ebbing  low, 
Come   back  no  more  with  its  vital  flow  — 
Yet  Love  still   shapes  our  destiny, 
Love  reigns  o'er  all  triumphantly, 
Love  lives  through  all   immortally, 
Love  is  its  own  eternity, 
And  we  are  Love's,  and  cannot  die  ! 


J3ESSIE. 


She  lay  before  me  in  her  little  shroud, 

Her  pale  hands  softly   folded   on  her  breast, 
As  if,  o'erwearied,  she  had  sunk  to   rest 

To  dream  of   heaven,  and  of   the  radiant  crowd 
That  tread  its  golden  pavements.     Not  a  trace 
Of   dying  anguish  lingered  on  her  face  ; 

But  round   her  lips  a  sweetly  serious  smile 
Still  seemed  to  play,  a  token  from  the  Lord 
Of   bliss  upon   her  sinless  spirit  poured. 

Then  came  a  thought  of  Him  who  blessed  erewhik* 
Young  children  —  "  Suffer  them   to  come  to  me  !  " 

Still  thrilled  that  heavenly  voice  upon  my  ear, 

And  my   heart  answered,  as   I   dropt  a  tear, 

"  Thy  will    be    done !  —  we    leave    our    child    with 
Thee !  ■ 

ii. 

As  fragrant  as   the  summer  flowers 

With   the  June  sunshine  in  their  heart, 

Was  the  young  life,  entwined   with  ours, 
And  seeming  of   our  souls  a   part. 


166  BESSIE. 

No  tenderer  joy  could  mortals  know 

Than  that  with  which  we  hailed  her  birth ; 

No  sadder  sacrament  of   woe, 

When  pale  lips  faltered  "  Earth  to  earth ! " 

The  sunlight  in  her  golden  hair, 

The  love-light  in  her  laughing  eye  — 

We  had  no  thought  that  aught  so  fair 
Could  in  its  dawning  beauty  die. 

And  as  we  marked  each  budding  grace 

Unfolding  sweetly,  day  by  day, 
In  added  charms  of   form  and  face, 

We  dreamed  not  of   their  swift  decay. 

But  said,  "  This  child,  so  lovely  now, 
Will  be  yet  lovelier  in  our  sight ! " 

And  Hope  wove  garlands  for  her  brow, 
And  crowned  her  queen  of   all  delight. 

Ah,  mournful  change  !  the  life  so  full 
Of   promise  from  our  gaze  has  fled, 

And  earth  is  dark  and  drear  and  dull, 
Since  she  who  made  our   joy  is  dead. 

Dead!  ere  her  third  brief  summer's  close: 
Dead  !   while  its  flowers  by  thousands  bloom  ; 

And  every  gentle  wind  that  blows 
Scatters  their  petals  o'er  her  tomb ! 


BESS  J E,  167 

Vainly  we  wait  to  hear  once  more 
The  bird-like  music  of  her  voice  ; 

Her  light  step,  dancing  o'er  the  floor, 
That  made  our  very  hearts  rejoice  ; 

Vainly,  to  catch  Tier  joyous  smile, 

The  bright  gleam  of   her  sunny  hair ; 

The  happy  light  that  shone,  erewhile, 
In  eyes  that  blessed  us  unaware  ; 

Vainly,  to  feel  her  white  arms   twine 
Around  us  with  their  loving  stress, 

And  kisses  from  her  infantine 

Sweet  lips  on  ours,  like  roses,  press. 

O,  heavy  grief!    whose  palsying  touch 
Shatters  the  hopes  that  seemed  so  fair  ! 

O,  hungry  grave  !    that  claims  so  much 
Of   love's  best  treasures,  sweet  and  rare  ! 

Alas  !    our  tears  have  made  us  blind, 

And  so  amid  the  dark  we  grope, 
"While    God  is  infinitely  kind, 

And  blesses  us  beyond  our  hope. 

Look  up,  sad  heart,  for  lo,  the  child 

So  loved,  so  mourned,  has  found  her  rest ! 

A  spirit  pure  and  undefiled, 

Safe  sheltered  on  the  Father's  breast  ] 


THRENODY. 

Never  more  shall  mother-breast 
Be  the  pillow  of   thy  rest  ; 
Never  more  thy  laughing  eye 
To  the  mother's  glance  reply  ; 
Nor  the  lisping,  loving  word 
From  thy  baby-lips  be  heard ; 
Nor  thy  thousand  little  wiles 
Kindle  all  her  face  with  smiles. 

From  the  shelter  of  her  breast 
Thou  hast  gone  to  deeper  rest ; 
Sunny  eye  and  laughing  lips 
Darkly  sleep  in  death's  eclipse ; 
And  the  grave's  cold  shadow  now 
Veils  the  whiteness  of   thy  brow, 
While  thy  mother,  night  and  morn, 
Sorrows  for  her  latest  born. 

Yet  I  ween  'tis  well  with  thee, 
Early  from  thy  thralldom  free, 
Ere  thine  eye  had  caught  a  glance 
Of   our  sad  inheritance  ; 


THRENODY.  169 

Or  thine  ear  had  learned  to  know 
.All  the  dialect  of   woe  ; 
Or  the  light  thy  soul   within 
Faded  in   the  murk  of   sin. 

"While  the  music  of  the  spheres 
Trembled  on   thine  infant  ears, 
And   the  angels  made  thy  dreams 
Luminous   with   Eden-gleams, 
Death  —  himself   an  angel  —  came, 
Tenderly   he  touched  thy  frame, 
And  thy  spirit  from  its  clay 
Leapt  exultingly  away  ! 

Now,  amid  the  ransomed   throng, 
Overflow  thy  lips  with  song  ; 
Never  did  so  sweet  a  note 
Cleave  the  air  from  mortal   throat  ; 
Never  heard  the  ear  of  Time 
Strains  so  holy  and  sublime, 
All  whose  tender  minors  tell 
Of  a  bliss  ineffable. 

Is  it  losing,  to  have  given 
One   to  swell   the  song$  of   heaven, 
Ere  his  happy  spirit  knew 
Aught  to  stain  its  virgin  hue? 


170  THRENODY. 

Henceforth  to  our  spirit-sight 
Shall  that  world  be  doubly  bright, 
And  intenser  longings  burn 
In  our  hearts,  till  we,  in  turn, 
Chastened,  sanctified,  and  blest, 
Pass  serenely  to  its  rest  I 


BIRTHDAY    SONG. 

Katrina  !    feel  you  not   with   me 
Our  years  are  hurrying  on, 

And   that  tlie  sparkle  of   life's  cup 

For  evermore  is  gone  ? 
Already  hath  the  share  of   Time 

Harked  deeply  on   my  brow 
The   furrow  that   too   plainly   tells 

That  youth  is  over  now. 
My  locks,   which  once   were  darkly   brown, 

Grow  grisly  now  and  thin  ; 
Old   Age  comes  stealthily   along  — 

The  thievish  manikin  !  — 
And  in   my   face  he  shakes  his  paw 

As  he  is  gliding  by, 
And  snatches   with   his   felon-hand 

The  lustre  from  my  eye  ! 

The   honey-moon  of   life  is   past  — 

Our  days   of    fun   are   over  — 
We   may   not   tread    the   dance   again, 

The   loved   one   and    the   lover  .' 


172  BIRTHDAY  SONG. 

So,  soberly  and  quietly 

We'll  spend  the  autumn  hours, 

Nor  sigh  that  we  have  left  behind 
Life's  spring-time  and  its  flowers. 

The  blossoms  failed  us  long  ago, 

The  leaves  are  waxing  sere  ; 
But  golden  fruits  are  in  their  place 

To  crown   the  waning  year. 
And  though  the  flush  and  glow  of   life 

With  youthful  dreams  depart, 
Love,  ripened  by  the  waning  years, 

Glows  deathless  in  the  heart. 


WITH  NATURE. 


NATURE'S    WORSHIP. 

Deem  it  not  an  idle  thought 
From  the  dreaming  fancy  wrought, 
That  the  great   Creative   Soul 
Thrills   through  the  created   whole, 
And   that  conscious   Nature  gives 
To  the  Life  in  which  she  lives 
Tribute  meet  of   praise  and  prayer, 
Evermore  and  everywhere  ! 

Day   to  day  doth  utter  speech, 
Night  to  night  her  lore  doth  teach  ; 
And  their  voices  manifold 
Over  farthest  space  are   rolled  : 
Mingling  in   the  Upper   Calm, 
Lo  !    they   form  a  solemn   psalm, 
And  their  music  sweet  and  clear 
Fills,  like  light,  our  atmosphere. 


174  NATURE'S    WORSHIP. 

Earth  nor  mountain   hath,  nor  glen, 
Solitude,  nor  haunt  of   men, 
Flowery  knoll,  nor  sterile  sod, 
But  is  conscious  of  its   God! 
And  in  springing  blade  or  brake, 
Or  the  sand  grain's  curious  make, 
Or  the  dark  mould,  testifies 
"  He  is  good  as  He  is  wise  ! " 

Every  flower  that  from  its  cup 
Sendeth  sweetest  incense  up, 
Every  shrub   where  hum  the  bees 
Their  day-long  monotonies, 
Every  leaf   whose  tender  green 
Silvers  in  the  shimmering  sheen. 
Every  blade   of   dewy  grass 
Trembling  as  the  breezes  pass  — 

Every  gentle  wind  that  plays 
With   the  tassels  of    the  maize, 
Or  along  the  billowy  plaiu 
Rolls  the  waves  of   golden  grain  ; 
Every  bird  that  soars  and  sings, 
Shaking  from   its  quivering  wings 
Drops  of  such  melodious  rain 
Who  has  heard  would  hear  again  — 


NATURE'S   WORSHIP. 

Every  insect  of   to-day 
Buzzing  its  brief   life  away, 
Born   with  the  ascending  sun, 
Dying  ere  the  day  is  done, 
Tells  of   God,  and  joins  its   hymn 
"With  the  chants  of   Seraphim, 
As  they  cry  His  throne  before, 
u  Holy  !    Holy  !    evermore  !  " 

Other  sounds  are  blent  with  these 
In  divinest  harmonies, 
Till   the  air  that  round  us  floats 
Quivers  with  their  rhythmic  notes  ! 
Through  the  spaces,  near  and  far, 
Sweeping  on  from  star  to  star 
Is  the  glorious  anthem  sent 
To  the  farthest  firmament ! 

In   the  old  primeval   woods 

With  their  holy  solitudes ; 

On   the  mount's  untrodden   crest 

"Where  the  snows  of   centuries  rest ; 

In   the  farthermost  recess 

Of   the  tangled   wilderness, 

Still  from  Nature's  heart  are   poured 

Praises  to   the   Sovereign   Lord  ! 


176  NATURE'S    WORSHIP. 

Where  the  silver-footed  rills 
Laugh  and  babble  down  the  hills ; 
Where  the  river's  statelier  sweep 
Bears  its  tribute  to  the  deep  ; 
Where,  in  tempest  or  in  calm, 
Ocean  intonates  his  psalm, 
Ceaseless  worship  Nature  gives 
To  the  life  in  which  she  lives  ! 

Soul  of   man,    awake !    aspire ! 
Join  the  myriad- voiced  choir; 
Let  thy  hymns  of  praise  combine 
With  the  anthem  all  divine  ; 
With  ascriptions  pure  and  sweet 
Make  the  melody  complete, 
And  the  glorious  strain  prolong 
With  the  spirit's  crowning  song! 


SONNET. 

A  dreamt  whisper  from  the  sweet  southwest, 
Borne  on   the  just-awakened  zephyr's  wing, 
Comes  to  the  ear  with  stories  of  the   Spring, 

And  hids  the  heart  in  her  return  be  blest. 

Joy    to    the    earth  !    for    Spring  with    breeze    and 

song, 
Leaflet  and  bud,  comes  jocundly  along. 

While  in  her  breath  the  trees  are  blossoming. 
And  see  !  the  greenness  of  the  tender  grass 
Where   her  light  footstep  airily  doth  pass  ; 

The    clear-voiced    birds,  and    streams,  and    fountains 
sing 
A   woven  melody   to  greet  her  coming, 
And   voices  low  and   musical  are  humming 

A  song  of  welcome  ;   and   the  earth   rejoices, 

And   praises   God  with  manifold  glad   voices. 
12 


SPRING. 

The  sweet  south  wind,  so  long 
Sleeping  in  other  climes,  on  sunny  seas, 
Or  dallying  gayly  with  the  orange-trees 

In  the  bright  land  of  song, 
Wakes  unto  us,  and  laughingly  sweeps  by, 
Like  a    glad  spirit  of  the  sunlit  sky. 

The  laborer  at  his  toil 
Feels  on  his  cheek  its  dewy  kiss,  and  lifts 
His  open  brow  to  catch  its  fragrant  gifts  — 

The  aromatic  spoil 
Borne  from  the  blossoming  gardens  of  the  south - 
While  its  faint  sweetness  lingers  round  his  mouth. 

The  bursting  buds  look  up 
To  greet  the  sunlight,  while  it  lingers  yet 
On  the  warm  hill-side  ;  and  the  violet 

Opens  its  azure  cup 
Meekly,  and  countless  wild   flowers  wake  to  fling 
Their  earliest  incense  on  the  gales  of   Spring. 


SPRING.  179 

The  farmer,  in  his  field, 
Draws  the  rich  mould  around  the  tender  maize  ; 
While  Hope,  bright-pinioned,  points  to  coming  days, 

When  all  his  toil  shall  yield 
An  \ample  harvest,  and  around  his  hearth 
There  shall  be  laughing  eyes  and  tones  of  mirth. 

The  reptile  that  hath  lain 
Torpid  so  long  within  his  wintry  tomb, 
Pierces  the  mould,  ascending  from  its  gloom 

Up  to  the  light  again  ; 
And  the  lithe  snake  crawls  forth  from  caverns  chill, 
To  bask  as  erst  upon  the  sunny  hill. 

Continual  song3    arise 
From  universal  Nature ;  birds  and  streams 
Mingle  their  voices,  and  the  glad  earth  seems 

A  second  Paradise ! 
Thrice  blessed   Spring !   thou  bearest  gifts  divine ! 
Sunshine,  and  song,  and  fragrance,  all  are  thine. 

Nor  unto  earth  alone  — 
Thou  hast  a  blessing  for  the  human  heart, 
Balm  for  its  wounds  and  healing  for  its  smart, 

Telling  of   Winter  flown, 
And  bringing  hope  upon  thy  rainbow  wing, 
Type  of   eternal  life,  thrice-blessed  Spring ! 


SUGAR    BROOK. 

[a  memory  of  boyhood.] 

It   ran  through   the  green  old  meadows 

Where   we  as  children  played, 
"With  a  shimmering  gleam  in  the  sunlight, 

A  gloom  in  the   dappled  shade  ; 
And  under  the  rippling   waters 

Did  the  smooth,  white  pebbles  look 
Like  lumps  of  crystal  sugar, 

So   we  called  it  "  Sugar  Brook." 

In  the  overhanging  beeche9 

The   robin  and  bobolink 
Sang  all  the  summer  morning 

To   the  kine  that  came  to  drink; 
And  the  brook  with  a   drowsy   murmur 

Sent  forth  its    answering  tune 
To  the  bees  in   the  nodding  clover 

Through  the  still,  bright  days  of  June. 

There  I  went  to    fill  my  runlet 

From  the  spring  beneath  the  birch, 

Or  to  wile,   with   a  pin-made  fish-hook 
From  its  depths,  the  shining  perch  ; 


SUGAR  BROOK.  181 

And  I  thought  —  'twas  a  childish  fancv  — 

That  never  was  brook  so  fair, 
And  never  such  musical  song-birds 

As  saug  from  the  beeches  there. 

There  I  forded  the  cryskil  shallows 

With  trousers  rolled  up   from  my   legs, 
Or  foraged   the  clumps  of   alder 

For  the  blackbirds'  speckled  eggs ; 
And  Nature,  the  dear    old  mother, 

Stole  silently  into  my  heart, 
And   the   beautiful   lore  she  taught   me 

Is  still  of  my  life  a  part. 


•MAY. 

The  sweet,  voluptuous  May 
Is  here  at  length,  through  all  its  sunny  hours 
Over  the  grateful  earth  to  sprinkle  flowers 

In  beautiful  array, 
And  clothe  with  deeper   verdure  hill  and  plain, 
And  give  the  woods  their  glory  back  again. 

No  bird  whose  swelling  throat 
Quivers  with  song,  or  whose  extended  wing 
Fans  the  soft  air,  but  cheerlier  doth  sing, 

While  on  the  breezes  float 
Odors  from  blossoms  which  the  sun's  caress 
"Wakes  to  new  life  in  field  and  wilderness. 

The  shimmering  sunlight  falls 
On  mount  and  valley  with  a  softer  sheen  ; 
And  lo  !    the  orchards,  newly  clothed  with    green 

Lift  up  their    coronals 
Of  flowers  bright-hued,  or,  shaken  by  the  breeze, 
Rain  their  sweet  largess  from  a  thousand  trees. 


MAT.  183 

The  green    and  tender    maize 
Pierces  the  moistened  mould,  and   from  the  air, 
And  earth,  and  sunlight  gathers  strength   to  dare 

The  sultry  summer  days  ; 
And  Spring's  sweet  promise  of  autumnal   fruit 
Lives  in  the  blade  of  every  fragile  shoot. 

Out  underneath  the  sky, 
Where  the  free  winds   may  toss   their  sunny   curls, 
Frolic  glad  companies  of  boys  and  girls 

In  sinless  revelry  ; 
While  Nature  smiles  approving  on  their  play, 
And  lambs  and  birds  with  them  keep  holiday. 

All  gentle  things  rejoice 
In  the  new  life  and  beauty  round   them  spread, 
Green  earth  beneath,  the  blue  sky  overhead, 

And  with  exultant  voice 
Pour  their  thanksgiving  to  the   Lord  of  all, 
Whose  loving  care  notes  even  the  sparrow's  fall. 

Then  welcome,  bonny  May  ! 
Thy  breezes,  fragrant  with   the  breath  of  flowers, 
With  song  and  sheen  that  make  thy  laughing  hours 

The  glad  year's  holiday  ! 
With  grateful  hearts  thy  presence  do   we  bless, 
And   in   thy  gifts  rejoice  with   thankfulness. 


JUNE. 

June  with  its  roses  !    June ! 
The  gladdest  month  of  our  capricious  year, 
With  its  lush  greenery  and  its  sunlight  clear, 

And  the  low  murmurous  tune 
Of  brook   and  fountain,  as  their  waters  pass 
With     gleam    and     gurgle      through     the      springing 
grass. 

June  !    at  whose  joyous  birth 
Her  regal  robes  exultant  Earth  puts  on, 
While  all  her  voices  speak  a  benison 

And  send  their  welcomes  forth, 
A  wondrous  music  breathed  from  all  around, 
Till  the  air  pulses  with  the  rhythmic  sound. 

The  overarching  sky 
Puts  on  a  softer  tint,  a  lovelier  blue, 
As  if  the  inner  glory  melted  through 

The  sapphire  walls  on  high  ; 
And  with  the  sunshine  folded  in  their  breast, 
Float  the  white  clouds,  like  spirits  to  their  rest. 


JUNE.  185 

A  deeper  melody, 
Poured  by  the  birds  as  o'er  their  callow  young 
Watchful  they  hover,  to  the   breeze  is  flung, 

Gladsome,  yet   not  of  glee  ; 
A   heart  born  music,  such  as   mothers  sing 
Above   their  cradled    infants  slumbering. 

On  the   warm  hill-side,   where 
The  -sunlight   lingers  latest,  through   the  grass 
Blushes   the  >-trawberry,  tempting  all   who  pass  ; 

And   children   linger  there, 
Crushing  the  luscious  fruit   in   playful    mood, 
And  staining  their  bright  faces   with  its  blood. 

A  deeper,  ruddier  hue 
Comes  to  the  ripening  cherry,  day  by  day, 
As  soft  airs  kiss  it,  and  the  sun's  warm  ray 

Fills  it  with  life  anew; 
While  truant  school-boys  look   with  longing  eyes. 
And  peril   limb  and   neck   to  win  the  prize. 

The   former  in   his    field 
Draws  the  rich  mould  around  the   tender  maize, 
While   Hope  sings   softly,  "  After  many  days 

Thy  toil  its  fruit  shall  yield 
In   ample   harvests,  and  around   thy   hearth 
Shall   Peace  and    Plenty  sit,  with   Love  and  Mirth." 


186  JUNE. 

Poised  on  his    rainbow  wing, 
The  butterfly,  whose  life  is  but  an  hour, 
Hovers  coquettishly  from  flower  to  flower, 

A  restless,  happy  thing, 
Born  for  the  sunshine  and  the  summer's  day, 
And  with  the  sunshine  passing  soon  away. 

These  are  thy  pictures,  June! 
Brightest  of  summer  months  !  thou  month    of  flow- 
ers ! 
First-born  of  beauty  !    whose  swift-footed  hours 

Dance  to  the  merry  tune 
Of  birds  and  brooklets,  and  the  joyous  shout 
Of  childhood  on  the  sunny  hills  flung  out. 

Surely,  it  is  not  wrong 
To  deem  thou  art  the  type  of  heaven's  clime  — 
Only  that  there  the  clouds  and  storms  of  time 

Sweep  not  its    skies  along ; 
The  flowers,  air,  beauty,  music,  all  are  thine, 
But  brighter,  purer,  lovelier,  more  divine  ! 


THE    SONG   OF    THE    MOWERS. 

We  are  up  and  away,  ere  the    sunrise  hath    kissed, 

In  the  valley  below  us,  that  ocean   of  mist ; 

Ere  the  tops  of   the  hills  have  grown  bright  in  its 

ray, 
With  our    scythes    on  our    shoulders,  we're    up    and 

away! 

The  freshness  and  beauty  of  morning  are  ours, 
The  music  of  birds,  and  the  fragrance  of  flowers  ; 
And  our  trail  is  the  first    that  is  seen  in  the    dew, 
As    our    pathway    through    orchards    and    lanes    we 
pursue. 

The  helmeted  clover,  in  serried  array, 
Like  a  host  for  the  battle,  awaits  us  to-day  ; 
Like  a  host    overthrown,   rank  by  rank,  shall  it  lie 
Ere    the    heats    of    the    noontide    are  poured     from 
the  sky. 

Hurrah !    here  we  are  !    now  together,  as  one, 
Give  your    scythes  to  the  sward,  and  press  steadily 
on; 


188       THE  SONG    OF    THE  MOWERS. 

All   together,  as   one,  o'er  "the   stubble    we   pass, 
With  a  swing  and  a  ring  of    the  steel   tli rough   the 
grass. 

Before   us  the  clover  stands  thickly  and   tall, 

At  our  left  it  is  piled  in  a  verdurous  wall  ; 

And  never  breathed  monarch  more  fragrant  per- 
fumes 

Than  the  sunshine  distills  from  its  leaves  and  its 
blooms. 

Invisible  censers  around   us    are  swung, 
And  anthems  exultant  from  tree-tops  are  flung  ; 
And   'mid  fragrance  and  music  and  beauty  we  share 
The  jubilant  life  of  the  earth  and  the  air. 

Let  the  priest  and    the  lawyer  grow    pale  in    their 

shades, 
And  the  slender    young  clerk    keep  his   skin  like   a 

maid's ; 
We    care    not,    though    dear    mother    Nature     may 

bronze 
Our  cheeks  with  the  kiss  which  she  gives  to  her  sons. 

Then  cheerly,   boys,  cheerly  !    together,  as  one, 
Give  your  scythes  to  the  sward,  and  press  steadily  on  ; 
All  together,  as  one,  o'er    the  stubble  we  pass, 
With  a  swing  and  a  ring  of    the  steel   through   the 
grass. 


SUMMER    MORNING. 

How  brightly  on  the  hill-side  sleeps 

The  sunlight  with   its  quickening  rays! 
The  verdurous  trees  that  crown  the  steeps, 

Grow  greener  in  its  shimmering  blaze ; 
"While  nil   the   air   that  round  us  floats, 

With  subtile  wing,  breathes  only  life, 
And,  ringing  with   a  thousand  notes, 

The  woods  with  song  are  rife. 

"Why,  this  is  Nature's  holiday  ! 
She  puts  her  gayest  mantle  on  ; 
And,  sparkling  o'er  their  pebbly   way, 

"With  gladder  shout  the  brooklets   run  ; 
And    every  bird,  exulting,  gives 

A  sweeter  cadence  to  its  song  ; 
A  gladder  life  the  insect  lives 

That  floats  in   light  along. 

M  The  cattle  on   a  thousand  hills," 
The  fleecy  flocks  that  dot  the  vale, 

Rejoice  in   all   the  life  that  fills 

The   air,  and   breathes  in   every  gale. 


190  SUMMER  MORNING. 

And  who,  that  has  a  heart  and  eye, 

To  feel  the  bliss  and  drink  it  in, 
But  pants,  for    scenes  like  these  to  fly 

The  city's  smoke  and  din  — 

A  sweet  companionship   to  hold 

With  Nature  in  her  forest-bowers, 
And  learn  the  gentle  lessons   told 

By  singing  birds  and  opening  flowers  ? 
Nor  do  they  err  who  love  her  lore  ; 

Though  books  have  power  to  stir  my  heart, 
Yet  Nature's  varied  page  can  more 

And  deeper  joy  impart. 

No  selfish  joy :   if  duty  calls 

Not  sullenly  I  turn  from  these, 
Though  dear  the  dash  of  waterfalls, 

The  wind's  low  voice  among  the  trees, 
Birds,   flowers,  and  flocks  ;  for   God  hath  taught, 

(O,  keep,  my  heart !    the  lesson  still,) 
His  soul  alone  with  bliss  is  fraught 

Who  heeds  the  Father's  will! 


NOON   IN    MIDSUMMER. 

The  hot  sun,  from  his  noontide  altitude, 

Looks  on  the  fainting    earth  with  burning  eye, 
And  the  still  lakes  reflect  a  brazen  sky- 
On  which  no  cloud   its  shadow  dare  intrude. 
Droops  the  frail  herbage  in  the  fiery  glare, 
Asking  in  vain  for  moisture  ;   and  the  maize 
Rolls  its  lithe  leaves  together,  as  the  blaze 
Of  noon  pours  down,  heating  the  sluggish  air, 
And  hushing  the  tired  birds  among  the  trees. 
The  leaves  forget  their  dances,  for    the  breeze 
Hath  gone  to  sleep  within  the  caves  of   ocean, 
And  a  most  solemn  stillness,  which  no  sound 
Breaks  save  the  voice  of  waters,  broods  around, 
"While  Nature's  heart  hath  almost  ceased  its  motion. 


THE     RAIN. 

Dashing  in  big  drops  on  the  window-pane, 
And  falling  thick  and  fast  among  the  leaves, 
"While  the  west  wind  a  rhythmic  cadence  weaves, 

I   hear  the  ringing  of  the  summer  rain  ; 

Its  dreamy  monotone  the  senses  lull, 

And  bring  a  sweet  forgetfulness  of  pain, 
While  memory  saunters  through  the  past  again, 

And  lingers  with  the  loved  and  beautiful,  — 

The  friends  of  childhood ;   they  whose  sunny  faces 
Make  of  the  summer  of  our  lives  a  part, 
And  shed  their  gladness  on   the  lonely  heart, 

That  silent  pines  for  the  familiar  places, 
The  old  companionship  of  rock  and  tree, 
And  the   full  life  that  only  asked  to  be. 


SUMMER. 

"Wreaths  on  her    brow,  and  blossoms  in  her    hand, 
Music,  and  sunshine,  and  the  fragrant   breath 

Of  the  voluptuous   wind  from   the   South  land 
Attending,  while  the   spring-time  vanisheth, 

Summer  conies   forth  !      How  regally  she  lifts 
Her  stately  head,  and  like  a    crowned   queen 
Assumes  her  sceptre !      Yet   with  gentlest  mien 

And  prodigal  hand  she  scatters   choicest  gifts 
Over  the  earth,  making  the  valleys   smile 
With  verdure,  and  the  hills  exult  the  while. 

The  cheerful  laborer,   toiling    all  day  long 
Amid  the  golden  harvest,  owns  her  power, 
And  as  his  heart  rejoices  in   her   dower, 

He  blesses   Summer  in  his  frequent  song. 
13 


WINTER. 

How  beautiful  is  Winter!      Earth  hath  put 
Her  snowy  vesture  on,  and  the  wide  fields 
Glisten  beneath  the  radiance  of  the  sun, 
A  waveless  ocean  of  most  dazzling  white. 
In  the  slant  sunbeams  flashing,  the  tall  trees 
Lift  up  their  jeweled  crests   with   regal  pride, 
As  conscious  of  their  beauty  ;   and,  at  times, 
By  the  faint  wind  caressed,  profusely  fling 
Down  to  the  earth   the  burden  of   their  gems. 
The  frost  with  his  most  cunning  ministry 
Hath  visited  the  streams,  whose  drowsy  song 
Through  the  long  summer  time  continuously 
Stirred    the    soft    air,    and    stream     and    song    are 

still : 
Yet  might  the  ripple's  curl  deceive  the  eye, 
So  much  it  looks  like    motion,  and  the  wave 
Still  seems  to  fret  along  its  rocky  bed, 
And  dash  adown  the  cascade  with  its  spray. 
Where,  o'er  the  deep  ravine,  the  precipice 
Frowns,  and  the  water    from  its  hidden  springs 
Trickled  erewhile  along   the  rocky  ledge, 
And  sought  with    frequent  plunge   the  depth  below, 


WINTER.  195 

See  !  in   what  varied  and  fantastic  forms 
Those    drops,  congealed,  are    wrought!    How   differ- 
ent all, 
Yet  all  how  beautiful  !      Pillars  of  pearl 
Propping  the  cliffs  above,  stalactites  bright 
From   the  ice-roof  depending  ;    and   beneath, 
Grottoes  and  temples  with   their  crystal  spires 
And  gleaming  columns  radiant  in  the  sun  ; 
Thrones  carved  from  purest  porphyry,  whereon   sit 
Tall  warrior-forms  in  coats  of  dazzling  mail ; 
And  strown  profusely  over  all,  rich  gems, 
Shifting  with   rainbow  hues,  and  flashing  back 
The  intrusive  sunlight,  —  these  are  thine,  O  Frost ! 
TJiy  marvelous  doings,  wizard  architect ! 
For  thus  thou  praisest   God  !     And  we  will  praise 
His  name  with  hymns,  that   He  has  sent  us  thee 
With  power  to  make  the  Winter  beautiful. 


DECEMBER. 

I   sit  and  listen  to  the  long,  low  howl 

Of  Winter,  coming  from  his  northern   lair, 
Girded  about  with  ice — the    angry  growl 

Of  gathering  storms  upon   the  frosty  air  ; 

And  the  complaining  woods  that  everywhere 
Sob  for  the  ravishing  of  their  crowns  of  gold, 
Crimson,  and  purple,  and  the  manifold 

Hues  of   the  frost-fires,  weird  and  wondrous   fair. 
By  ruffian  winds.     The  brow  of   heaven,  erewhile 
Bright  with  the  glow  of   autumn's  quivering  smile, 

Now  veils  its  beauty   with  the  frequent  frown  ; 

And    from     the     streams     that,     laughing,     leapt 
adown 
The  rocky  hill-sides,  or  along  the  valleys 

Glided  with  murmurous  song,  the  song  has  fled, 

And    the    flowers,    listening    on    the    banks,    are 
dead, 
Killed  by   the  cruel  frost.     The  Snow  King  rallies 
His  white-plumed    hosts,  and    sends    them    sweeping 

forth 
In  bannered  squadrons  from   the  frozen  North, 


DECEMBER.  197 

Squadron  on   squadron,  till  their  legion   fills 
The   whole   wide  landscape,   with  its  circling  hills  ; 
And   the  old  trees,  that  stand  like  sentinels 
To  guard   the  passes   winding  through  the  dells 
Down  to   the  levels  of  the  open   plain, 
Toss   their  nude   branches   to   the   hurricane, 

While  in   their  tops  a  spirit  seems  to   wail 
For  the  dead  glories  of  the  dying  year  — 
Its  faded  blossoms  and  its  foliage  sere, 

Swept  like  the  chaff  before  the  angry  gale. 


SOXGS   OF  FEEEDOM  AXD 
FATHEELAND. 

THE    PILGRIM    FATHERS. 

Bold  men  were  they,  and  true,  that    Pilgrim  band, 

Who    ploughed  with  venturous    prow  the    stormy 
sea, 

Seeking  a  home  for  hunted   Liberty 
Amid   the  ancient  forests  of  a  land 
Wild,  gloomy,  vast,  magnificently  grand  ! 

Friends,  country,  hallowed  homes  they  left,  to  be 
Pilgrims  for   Christ's  sake  to  a  foreign  strand, 

Beset  by  peril,  worn   with  toil,  yet  free  ! 
Tireless  in   zeal,  devotion,  labor,  hope  ; 

Constant  in  faith  ;    in  justice  how  severe  ! 

Though  fools  deride  and   bigot-skeptics  sneer, 
Praise  to  their  names !    If  called  like   them   to  cope, 

In  evil  times,   with  dark   and  evil  powers, 

O,  be  their  faith,  their  zeal,  their  courage  ours! 


TO-DAY. 

Tm;  Past  has  done  its  work!     How   well, 
How  ill,  it  matters  not  to  say ; 

For  lo !    upon   our    ears  cloth  swell 
The  summons  of  To-Day. 

A  kinj*,  of  kings  the  kindliest ! 

No  prouder  ever  graced  a  throne ; 
His  realm  the  earth  from  east  to  west. 

From  north  to  southern  zone. 

His  are  the  potencies   sublime 

That  bend   the  nations  to  his  sway  ; 

And  every  land  and  every  clime 
Alike  his  power  obey. 

The  acres  that  have  gone  before, 

The   awful    Past,   now    vague   and   dim, 

Left,  lapsing   from   Time's   crumbling  shore, 
Their  good  and  ill   to  him. 

"With   these,  for  glory  or  for  shamp, 
As   this   or   that   his   work    shall   crown. 


200  TO-DA  Y. 

He  builds  the  temple  of   his  fame, 
His  record  of  renown. 

His  subjects   we !    to  aid,  if  true  — 
If  false,  to  mar  —  the  grand  design 

That  bids  the  old  earth  bloom  anew, 
Filled  with  a  life  divine. 

He  summons  us  to  nobler  tasks 

Thau   ever  in   the  Past   were   wrought. 

And,  for  his  larger  purpose,  asks 
A  nobler  style  of   thought : 

Brave  wills  to  dare,  strong  arms  to  do 
The  work  that  will  not  brook  delay ; 

Wise  heads,  warm  hearts,  to  duty  true, 
And  loyal  to  To- Day. 

No  dim,  vague  dreams  of  faded  flowers, 
Whose  fragrance  never  comes  again  ; 

No  lingering   with  the  buried  hours, 
Infirm  of  heart  and  brain, 

Will  he  accept.     Our  king  demands 
Unswerving  fealty  to  his    throne ; 

The  loyalty  of  hearts  and  hands, 
A  service  all  his  own. 


TO-DAY.  201 

The  selfish  ease   we  must  resign 

That  shrinks  from   battling  old  abuse, 

And  learn   that  labor  is  divine, 
Divine   the  life  of   use. 

His  call  is  heard  in    every  sigh 

That  heaves   the  sorrow-laden  breast ; 

In  every   wild,  despairing  cry 

Power  wrings  from  the  oppressed ; 

In  every  ancient   wrong   that   claims 

From  age  authority  to   be  ; 
In  cruel  fears,  and  haunting  shames, 

And  voiceless  misery ; 

In  broken  hearts,  in   wasted    lives, 

In  all   the  toil,  and  moil,  and    din, 
From   which  the   spirit   vainly  strives 

Some  notes  of   peace   to   win. 

Fold  not  your  arms  in  listless  mood, 

O  brothers,  for  he  speaks  to  you  ! 
Need  hath  he  of  the  wise  and  good, 

Need  of  the  brave  and  true. 

There's  room  for  all  and   work  for  all, 

The  urgent  need   rebukes    delay  ; 
And  lo !   the  nations  hear   the  call, 

The  summons  of  To-Day  ! 


EMANCIPATION    IN   THE     WEST     INDIES. 

Where  laugh  the  bright  Antilles 

Amid  the   Southern  main, 
Oppression  long  in  pride  had  ruled 

With  bloody  scourge  and   chain  ; 
The  negro,  crushed  beneath   his  hand, 

Bent  at  his  cheerless  toil, 
And  poured  his  unavailing  tears 

Upon  the  thirsty  soil. 

Curses  and  groans  went  upward 

Continually  to   God, 
And  shrieks  which   vexed  the   quiet  air 

Where'er  the  tyrant  trod: 
The  negro's  cup   was  dregged  with  tears, 

And,  darkest,  dreariest    fate, 
His  fetters  clanked  within  his  soul, 

And  made  it  desolate. 

Year  after  year  of  bondage 

The  self-same  story  told 
Of  guilt,  and   woe,  and  severed  hearts, 

Mothers  and  children  sold  — 


EMANCIPATION   IN    THE    WEST  INDIES.       203 

Hopes  crushed,  affections  blighted,  ties 

The   holiest  rent  in    twain, 
And   myriad  victims    flung  upon 

Thy   bloody  altar,   Gain  ! 

God  saw  it  all !   the  record 

Was   traced  before   His  eye  ; 
And   in   His  own   good  time   He  sent 

Deliverance  from  on  high  ! 
For  the  oppression  of  the  poor 

He  rose,  and  shook  the  earth  ; 
His  hand   unlocked  the  prison  door, 

And  led  the  captives  forth. 

Praise  to  thy  name,  Jehovah  ! 

Who  hath  deliverance    wrought, 
And  from  the  house  of  bondage 

Thy  sons  and  daughters  brought. 
We  cry  to  thee  in  faith,   O   Lord ! 

Stretch  forth   again  thy   hand  ; 
Break   the  strong  fetters  of  the   slave, 

And  spare  our  guilty   land. 


SONG   OF    THE    EMANCIPATED. 

[1843.] 

The  days  of  our  bondage  are  o'er ! 

Our  fetters  are  riven  in    twain  ! 
The  scourge  that  so  oft  has    been   wet  in  our    gore 

Shall  never  iusult  us  again  ! 
No  longer   we  bow   to  the  tyrant's  control, 
His  chains  iiave  we  broken   from  body  and  soul. 

We  are  free  as  the  breezes  that  sweep 

O'er  the  hills  and  the  vales  of  the  North  ! 

As  the  waves  of  the   sea  that  exultingly  leap 
When  the  breath  of  the  tempest  goes  forth ! 

Till  the  despot  can   fetter  the   winds  and  the  main, 

Our  necks  to  his    thralldom  we  bend  not  again  ! 

We  are  free !    and  O  sooner  by  far 

Would  we  pour  out  the  blood  from  our  veins 

In  the  strife  for  the  right,  'mid   the  horrors  of   war, 
Than  resume  the  disgrace  of  our  chains. 

For  our    freedom    or    death,    for    our  rights  or    our 
graves, 

We  will  suffer  and  dare ;  but  we  will  not  be  slaves  ! 


SOyG    OF    777  £  ElfAVCfPATED.  205 

They  may  press  with   their  hounds  on  our  track  ; 

They   may   bribe  with  their  ill-gotten  gold 
Their  serviles  to  thrust  us  insultingly  back, 

Like   beasts  in  the  mart  to  be  sold. 
In  vain  !    we  remember  the  oath  we  have  sworn, 
And  hurl  in  their  faces  defiance  and  scorn. 

Woe,  woe,  to  the   tyrants !   and  woe 

To  the  land  that  oppression    hath  cursed  ! 
The  burning  volcanoes  are  rumbling  below, 

And  even  in  their  fury  shall  burst ! 
And  the  vengeance  held  back   through   the  darkness 

of   years 
Shall  be    poured    forth  in  torrents  of    blood  and  of 
tears  ! 

They  shall  think  in  that  terrible  hour 

Of  the  wrongs   they  have  heaped  on  our  race, 

"When    the    trampled    of    ages    shall    rise    in    theiu 
power 
The  tramplers  to  hurl  from   their  place  ; 

Asserting  the   manhood  their  spoilers  deny, 

And  rending  the  air   with   their  jubilant  cry. 


FREEDOM'S    APOCALYPSE. 

[1848-49.] 


The  air  is  dark   with  sulphurous  clouds,  that  roll 

Up  from  the  red  mouths  of  a  thousand  cannon, 
Whose  deep-reverberated  thunders  knoll 

For  hosts  swept  down  in  slaughter  !     Plume  and 

pennon, 
Swords    hacked     and     blood-stained,     shattered    gun 

and  spear, 
Knapsack  and  pouch,  and   all  the  warrior's  gear  — 
The  dying  pillowed  on  the  festering  corse  — 
In  dire  confusion  mingled,  man  and  horse, 
Heaps  upon  heaps,  by  the  same  death-shot  slain, 
Strew  with  their    wrecks,  for    leagues    and    leagues, 

the  plain, 
Deaf  to  the  voice  of  lover  and   of  friend, 
Cold    as    the     earth   with    which     they    soon      shall 

blend ; 
While  obscene  birds,  impatient  for  their  prey, 
Swoop  upon  eyes  that  still  behold  the  day. 


FREEDOMS  APOCALYPSE.  207 

O  War  !  thou  fiend  abhorred  from  deepest  hell ! 

Dread  minister  of  vengeance  and  of  wrath  ! 

Chastiser  of  the  nations !    in  thy  path 
Are  hate*  and  horrors,  and  all  curses  fell ! 

Cities  collapse  in   flame,   and   plenty  flies 

Before   the  glare  of  thy  demoniac  eyes ; 
Harvests  are  trampled,  homes  defiled   with  blood. 

"Where    once,    at    morning's     dawn    and    evening's 
close, 

Songs  of  thank-giving,   prayers  of  trust  arose 
From  loving  hearts  to   the  all-loving   God ! 

Earth  trembles  at  thy  treat!,  and  her  broad  plains, 

Swept  of  their  verdure  by  thy  hurricanes, 
And  blasted  by  thy  pestilential  breath, 
Become  a  vast   Gehenna,  foul   with  death  ! 

ii. 

Yet  when  thou  strik'st  the  tyrant  and  oppressor. 
And  from  his  throne    hurl'st    down    the  sceptered 
lie, 
Startling  with  blare  of  trumpets   the   transgressor 

Of  God's  great  charter  of  equality,  — 
When  peoples  long  despoiled  awake  at  length 
To    know     their     rights,    and     half     perceive     their 
strength, 
And,  struggling  from  oppression's  long  eclipse, 
Shiver   their  fetters,   and   with  bitter  scorn, 
Trampling  the  yoke  their  necks   so  long  have  worn, 


208  FREEDOM'S  APOCALYPSE. 

Exult  in   Freedom's  dread  Apocalypse,  — 
Then,  fiend  no  more,  in  thee  our  eyes  behold 
The  awful  angel  that  redeemed  of  old, 

Strong-winged,  responsive  to  a  people's  wail, 
And  cry,  "  O   God  !  now  let  the  right  prevail." 

in. 

What  though  the  refluent  tide  of  tyrant  power 

Shall  with  its  gory  surges  dash  them  down, 
And    sweep    them    to    quick    death  ?     At    least  one 

hour 
Of  Freedom  hath   been   theirs,  and  if  they  die, 

They  die  as  men !     So  winning  the  renown 
Of  martyrs  in  thy  cause,  O  Liberty  ! 

Their  blood  is  vital  ;  whether  with  hot  flow 
Swelling  their  veins  amidst  the  battle's  shock, 

Or  sprinkled  in  the  red  path  of  the  foe, 
Or  streaming  from   the  headsman's  gory  block, 

No  single  drop  is  lost  or  shed  in   vain  ! 

Long  years  may  pass,  and  earth  forget  the  stain, 
Yet  shall  its  silent  power,  from  soul  to  soul 
Transmitted,  work  redemption  for  the  whole  ! 

IV. 

Be  patient,  O  be  patient !  ye  who  wait, 

Worn  with  long  toil,  for   Freedom's  coming  day  ; 
Though  years  on  years  roll  sullenly  away, 
And  no  strong  angel  open  flings  the  gate 
Of  its  red  dawn,  yet  doubt  not,  soon  or  late, 


FREEDOMS  APOCALYPSE.  209 

Old   Earth  shall  bask  in  its  effulgent  raj, 

And  her  glad  millions  from  tyrannic  sway 
Walk  forth  in  light  redeemed,  regenerate. 

Truth   is  immortal ;    and    (though   Fate  defer 
Her  hour  of  triumph,  and   prolong  the  stress 

Of  evil  fortune)   they   who   war  for  her, 
And  only   they,  are  certain  of  success, 

For  she  is   God's  anointed   minister. 
God    strikes    with    those    who    strike    for   righteous - 
ness  ! 

v. 

Strike  then,  ye  heroes  !   though  Oppression's  night 
Gloom  dark  and  cold  above   the   weary  fight,  — 

The  weary   fight  ye   wage   with  banded   wrongs, 
"While   through  the  gloom   shines  no  prophetic  ray, 
With  cheering  promise  of  the  dawning  day 

When  Earth  shall  greet  her  jubilee  with  songs  ! 
Strike  !  with  your  dauntless  hearts  in  every  blow, 
Till  Truth  exults  in   Falsehood's  overthrow  ! 

Strike !    and    the     fire    that    leaps     from    clashing 
steel 
Shall  light  the  ages  to  their  destined  goal, 

Freedom's   august,   and   sacred   common   weal, 
Where   Manhood   stands  erect  and  free  in  soul, 

And.   trampling  on  the  tyrant's   broken   rod, 

Kneels   to   no  monarch  save   the  sovereign    Go;l. 
14 


210  FREEDOM'S  APOCALYPSE. 

VI. 

Heroes  and    martyrs  !    waging  not  in  vain 

A  holy  warfare,  though  from  every  sod 
Your  blood  steams  upward,  it  shall   fall  in   rain 

To  nurse  the  tree  whose  planting  is  of  God  ! 
Ye  shall  yet  triumph !    for  Oppression's  power, 
Last  as  it  may,  is  only  for  an  hour, 

While    Freedom's    life    thrills    through     the    vast 
To  Be, 

And  claims  its    heirship  to  eternity  ! 
Then,  from    the     force    and     fraud    and     hate     that 

sway 
The  awful  issues  hidden  in  To-Day, 

To  the  great  future  send  your  bold  appeal, 
With  fire- winged  words    that    cleave  their  way  sub- 
lime 
Through  the  far  spaces  of  the  coming  time, 

And  trust  the  verdict  it  shall  yet  reveal. 


REVOLUTION. 

If,  maddened  by  oppression,  men   have  torn 
Their  shackles  off,  and   in  an  evil   time 
Spurned  all    restraint,  and    steeped    their  souls  hi 
crime, 

Trampling  laws,  customs,  creeds,  in  utter  scorn, 
Giving  the  rein  to  license,  and  through  blood 
Wading  in  quest  of  unsubstantial  good. 

Till  Earth  the  frenzy  of  her  sons  doth  mourn  — 
Reproach  not  Liberty  !  The  winds  long  pent, 
Volcanic  fires  repressed,  in  finding  vent 

Sweep  on  in  desolation  !      So  are  born 

All  monstrous  crimes  of  tyranny  —  rapine,  lust, 
.Murder,  convulsion  :   then  on  her  alone 
Be    vengeance    heaped !    and    Earth    and    Heaven 
will  own 

The   terrible  retribution   wise  and  just  ! 


THE    TIMES. 

I. 

Inaction  now  is  crime.     The  old  Earth  reels 
Inebriate   with  guilt ;    and  Vice,  grown  bold, 
Laughs  Iunocence  to  scorn.     The  thirst    for  gold 
Hath  made  men  demons,  till   the  heart  that  feels 
The  impulse  of  impartial  love,  nor  kneels 
In    worship  foul   to  Mammon,  is   contemned. 
He   who  hath  kept   his    purer  faith,  and  stemmed 
Corruption's  tide,  and  from  the  ruffian  heels 
Of  impious  tramplers  rescued  periled  right, 
Is  called  fanatic,  and   with  scoffs  and  jeers 
Maliciously  assailed.     The  poor  man's  tears 
Are  unregarded  ;    the  oppressor's   might 

Revered  as  law  ;    and  he   whose  righteous  way 
Departs  from  evil,  makes  himself  a  prey. 

II. 

"What  then  ?  Shall  he  who  wars  for  truth  suc- 
cumb 

To  popular  falsehood,  and  throw  down  his 
shield, 

And  drop  the  sword  he  hath  been  taught  to 
wield 


THE    TIMES.  213 

In   virtue's  cause  ?      Shall   righteousness  be  dumb, 
Awe-struck   before  injustice?     No!    a  cry, 

"  Ho  !    to  the  rescue  ! "  from  the    hills  hath  rung, 

And  men  have  heard    and    to   the  combat  sprung 
Strong  for  the  right,   to  conquer  or   to   die  ! 

Up,  loiterer  !    for  on   the   wind3  are  flung 
The  banners  of  the  faithful  !     and  erect 
Beneath  their  folds,  the  hosts  of  God's  elect 

Stand    in    their    strength.      Be    thou    their    ranks 
among. 
Fear  not.  nor  falter  ;  though  the  strife  endure, 
Thy  cause  is  sacred,  and  the  victory  sure. 


THE  MARTYR. 

i. 

O,  nobly  hast  thou  fallen   in  the  fight 

Of  holy  freedom  !    and  thy  name  shall   be 
Henceforth  the  watchword  of  the  good  and  free, 

Whose  arms  are  nerved  to  battle  for  the  right ! 

In   the  dark  days  before  us,  'mid   the  night 
Of  a  stern  tyranny,  we'll  think  of  thee, 

Martyr  of  God  !    and  strike  for  liberty 

With  faith  unwavering,  and  an  arm  of  might ! 

Not  unavenged,  O  brother,    shall  thy  blood 

Sink  in  the  ground ;    its  voice  shall  upward  ring 
A  fearful  cry  to  wake  the  slumbering, 

Reaching  the  ear  of  an  avenging   God  ! 

And  millions,  roused,  shall  swear  upon  thy  grave 

Death  to  oppression,  freedom  to  the  slave ! 

ii. 

And  thou,  devoted  wife  !    who  nobly  stood 

With  martyr-zeal,  and  in  the  strength  sublime 
Of  a  fond  heart   withstood  the  men  of  crime 

Who    sought,    with    fiend-like    rage,    thy    husband's 
blood  — 

Bereft  of  earthly  hope,  and  in  the  flood 


THE   MARTYR.  21") 

Of  a  dark  sorrow  overwhelmed,  what  now 

For  thee  remains  ?  Submissively  to  bow 
And  own  the  chastening  of  a  Father's  rod  ! 
God  help  thee,  broken  heart !     Thy  sacrifice 

Is  mighty,  but  it   shall  not  be  in  vain ! 

His    blood,    thy    tears,  they    shall    not    sink,    like 
rain, 
Unnoted  to  the  ground !     From  freemen's  eyes 
The  scales  are  falling,  and   this  woe  shall  be 
The  ransom  of   a  people,  — joy,  in    grief,  for  thee ! 

in. 

Joy,    that   through  this,  thy  fearful  suffering, 
Deliverauce  for  the  captive  shall  be   wrought ! 
The  chain  is    snapped    that    bound    the   indignant 
thought 

In  human  breasts  too  long,   and  men  will  fling 
Fear  from  their  spirits  as  they   think  of  thee, 
And   strike  for  freedom  till    the    earth  be  free  ! 

For  a  stern  purpose  thou  art  set  apart 

By   this  most  bloody   baptism  !     'Mid  distress 

Then  bear  thou  up,  and  gird  around   thy  heart 
Strength  for  his  sake  who  now  is  father!* 

o 

Lean   upon   God  and  linger  yet  awhile, 
And  from  thy  desolation  thou  shalt  see 
The  dawning  of  the  day  of  jubilee, 

When  the    freed    earth    shall    bask    in   Heaven's 

viving  smile ! 


WILLIAM    LLOYD    GARRISON. 

If  to  the  heroes  of  the  olden   time 

Who  fought    and  suffered,   Liberty  !  for    thee, 
Daring  to  die  to  make  a  people  free, 

Honors  belong,  and  triumph-hymns  sublime, 

Making  their  names  the  watchword  of  a  clime, 
What  meed  of  purest  glory  shall  be  given 
To  him   who  stands,  sustained    alone    by   Heaven, 

Battling  with  single   arm  a  nation's  crime  ? 

Unmoved,  unswerving  in   the  thickest  fight, 

Though    scoffs,    and    jeers,  and    curses    from    the 

vile, 
And  hate,  be  poured  upon  his  head  the  while, 

The  fearless  champion  of  the  true  and  right ! 

What  meed  for  him  ?  .  Profane    not  with  your  lays 

His    name,  for    Earth    no    language    hath    to    speak 
his  praise  ! 


THE    OLD    BANNER. 

Fling    out    the    old    Banner,    the    red,  white,    and 

blue, 
And  rally  around  it  with  hearts  that  are  true  ! 
For    the    war-blast    of    treason    is     heard     in    the 

South, 
Its  loud  thunders  boom  from  the  battery's  mouth  ; 
And    its    hordes,    mad    for    blood,    in    the    spirit    of 

Cain, 
Pour  down   from    the   hill-side,  swarm   up   from    the 

plain, 
And  swear  they  will  trample  the  flag  of  our  pride, 
For    which    "Washington     fought,    for    which    heroes 

have  died  ! 

CHORUS. 

Then  fling  out  our  Banner  again  to  the  gale, 
Though  treason   deride  and  though   traitors  assail  ; 
The    star-studded    Banner,  the   war-tattered     Banner, 
For    right  with  the    might   in    its    sheen   shall     pre- 
vail ! 


218  THE    OLD  BANNER. 

We  were  patient  —  that  patience  they  counted  as 
fear, 

And  repaid  us  with  insult,  with  gibe,  and  with 
jeer; 

We  forbore  —  but  they  read  our    forbearance  amiss, 

And  they  swept  uncontrolled  to  Rebellion's  abyss ; 

And,  mad  with  unreason,  unpausing  to  think, 

Like  fools  they  have  plunged  from  its  terrible 
brink, 

And  with  brands  from  that  hell  they  have  kin- 
dled a  fire 

That  shall  burn    till  the  traitors  who  lit    it  expire  ! 

For    the   land  which  our    fathers    bequeathed    us  in 

trust, 
For    the    tombs    where,    all-hallowed,  still    slumbers 

their  dust, 
For   the    Uuion    they    loved,    and    for    freedom    and 

law, 
And    the     old     flag  —  their    emblem  —  our    swords 

will  we  draw, 
And  never,  till  treason    is    crushed  'neath  our  heel, 
Shall  the    rust    of    the    scabbard    be    found    on  our 

steel, 
Nor    the  stillness    of    peace    hush    the  boom  of  our 

guns 
Till    the    land    of    our    fathers     is    saved    for    our 

sons ! 


TIIE    OLD  BANNER.  219 

Our     country    hath    called     and    her     people    have 

heard, 
And    their    hearts    to    their    innermost    centre    are 

stirred  ; 
By  fifties,  by  hundreds,  by  thousands  they  come, 
From   farm    and    from  work-shop,  from    ledger    and 

loom, 
From  palace  and  cottage,  the    rich  and   the  poor  — 
Comes    poet,    comes    artist,    comes    dreamer,    comes 

doer; 
No  hardship  can  daunt,  and  no  terror  appall, 
When  the  land  of    their  love    on  her  children  doth 

call ! 

Never  holier  cause  summoned  heroes  to  strife 
Than  that    to  which    now  they  pledge    fortune    and 

life; 
Never  fealty  more  true  nor  a  faith  more  sublime 
Than     they    give     to     that    cause,    is     recorded    in 

time  ; 
And  they  swear  by  the   God    of   their   fathers,  that, 

cost 
What  it  may  to  sustain  it,  it  ne'er  shall  be  lost ; 
And    never    shall    peace    hush     the    boom     of    their 

guns 
Till     the     land     of    our     fathers     is     saved    for    our 

sons  ! 


220  THE   OLD  BANNER. 

CHORUS. 

Then  fling  out  our  Banner  again  to  the  gale, 
Though  treason  deride  and  though  traitors  assail  ; 
The  star-studded   Banner,  the  war-tattered    Banner, 
For  right  with   the    might    in    its    sheen    shall    pre- 
vail ! 


ELLSWORTH. 

MAT  24,  1861. 

Who  keeps  his  faith  in   God  and  man, 
By  sore  temptation  unsubdued  — 
Who  trusts  the  right  and  loves  the  good, 

Lives  long,  however  brief   his  span. 

True  life  is  measured  not  by  days, 

Nor  yet  by  deeds  though   bravely  wrought ; 
Its  truest  gauge  is  noblest   thought, 

And  this  commands  our  highest  praise. 

So,  though  men  say,  "  Alas  !  how  brief 

His  course  whose  death  we  mourn   to-day ! 
The  prescient  soul  must  answer,  "  Nay, 

Ye  wrong  him   with  this  bitter  grief." 

What  seems  our  loss  hath   this  redress  : 
His  life,  by  generous  will  and  act, 
No  dream,  but  an  eternal  fact, 

Is  rounded  into  perfectness. 

He  is,  not  was:  the  pulse  that  beat 
But  yesterday   within  his  frame 


222  ELLSWOETn. 

To-day  is  like  a  living  flame 
In  every  manly  breast  we  meet. 

Poured  through  a  thousand  hearts,  the  life 
That  ebbed  in  his  asserts  its  sway, 
An  impulse  that  forbids  delay 

When  duty  summons  to  the  strife. 

And  hosts,  by  that  grand  impulse  moved, 
With  eager  haste   their  weapons  clasp, 
And  swear  to  save  from  treason's  grasp 

The  country  and  the  cause  he  loved. 

So  sanctified  by  martyr-blood 

To  us  the  cause  is  doubly   dear ; 
And  who,  remembering  him,  will  fear 

To  staud  for  right  as  Ellsworth  stood  ? 

For  faith  like  his  its  like  begets, 
And  courage,  though  the  hero  die, 
Doth   multiply  and  multiply, 

In  large  excess  of  our  regrets. 

And  thus  one  soul  that  never  swerved 
From  duty  fills  a  land  with   light ; 
And  countless  arms  are  nerved  for  fight 

By  one  strong  arm  that  death  unnerved. 


ELLSWORTH.  223 

So,  best  —  siuce  so  the  largest  good 
Results ;    nor  need  we  sum   the  cost, 
For  lives  so  lost  are  never  lost 

To  freedom  saved  by  martyr-blood. 

For  him  henceforth  his  country  claims 
The  ground  as  holy  where  he  sleeps, 
And,  like  a  loving  mother,  keeps 

His  name  among  her  dearest  names. 

And  when  love  bids  his  monument 
Lift  its  pure  column  to  the  air, 
No  fitter  legend  can  it  bear, 

Than  his  brave  words :  "  I  am  content ! " 

"  Content,  whatever  fate  be  mine  ; 
A  sacred  duty  bids  me  go, 
And  though  the  issue  none  can  know, 
I  hear  and  heed    the  voice  divine. 

"  Content  —  since  confident  that  He 

To  whom  the  sparrow's  fall  is  known, 
AVill  have  some  purpose  of  his  own 
Even  in  the  fate  of  one  like  me."  l 

i  In  the  last  letter  addressed  to  his  parents,  penned  but  a  few  hours 
previous  to  his  assassination,  Col.  Ellsworth  mju:  "Whatever  may 
happen,  cherish  the  consolation  that  I  was  engaged  in  the  performance 
of  a  sacred  duty  ;  and  to-night,  thinking  over  the  probabilities  of  the 


22-i  ELLSWORTH. 

O  golden   words !     O  faith  sublime  ! 

O  spirit  breathing  holy  breath  ! 

For  such  an  one  there  is  no  death, 
But  crescent  potencies  through  time! 

And  still  where  loyal  arms  roll  back 
The  crimson  tide  of  traitorous  war, 
His  memory,  like  a  beacon   star 

Shall  shine  above  the  battle's  rack  ; 

A  flame  the  patriot's  heart  to  cheer, 
And  give  new  temper  to  liis  sword  ; 
A  fire   to  blast  the  rebel  horde, 

And   melt  their  courage  into   fear. 

And  when,  Rebellion's  power  subdued, 
Shall  dawn   for  us  a  better  day, 
When   Peace  again  resumes  her  sway 

And  links  the  bands  of  brotherhood  — 

From  North  to   South,  from  East   to  West, 
His  name  shall  be  a  household  word, 
Revered  and  loved  wherever  heard, 

And   treasured  with  our   worthiest. 

morrow  and  the  occurrences  of  the  past,  I  am  perfectly  content  to  ac- 
cept whatever  my  fortune  may  he,  confident  that  He  who  noteth  even 
the  fall  of  a  sparrow  will  have  some  purpose  even  in  the  fate  of  one  like 
me." 


ELLSWORTH.  225 

So,  for  his  land,   the  good  he  meant, 
Won  in  the  triumph  of  the  right, 
His  spirit,   starred   with  heaven's  own   light, 

Once  more  shall  say  :  "  I  am  content ! " 
15 


THE    PRAYER    OF    A    NATION. 

God  of  our  fathers,  hear  our  earnest  cry  ! 

Our  hope,  our  strength,  our  refuge  is  with  Thee  ! 
Confound  our  foes  and  make  their  legions  fly  ! 
Strengthen  our  hosts  and  give  them  victory  ! 
Victory,  victory  — 
O,   God  of  armies,  give  us  victory  ! 

Not  for  exemption  from  the  toil  and  loss, 

The  pains,  the  woes,  the  horrors  of  the  strife, 
But  that  with  strong  hearts  we  may  bear  the  cross, 
And  welcome  death  to  save  our  nation's  life  : 
Victory,  victory  — 
O,   God  of  battles,  give  us  victory  ! 

For  this  no  costliest  gift  would  we  withhold;. 

For  this  we  count  not  dear  our  loved  repose, 
Our  teeming  harvests,  and  our  gathered  gold, 

Our  commerce,  fanned  by  every  wind  that  blows. 
Victory,  victory  — 
God  of  our  fathers,  give  us  victory  ! 


Son-,  brothers,  sires,  our  bravest  and  our  best, 

The  dearest  treasure  love   lias  sanctified, 
These  have  gone  forth  at  Liberty's  behest, 
And  on   her  altars  have  augustly  died ! 
Victory,  victory  — 
God  of  our  martyrs,  give  us  victory ! 

God !   have     they    ponred     their    priceless    blood    in 
vain  ? 
Shall  Treason  triumph  in  our  nation's  fall  ? 
Shall   Slavery  weld  once  more  her  broken   chain 
And   o'er  a  prostrate  land  hold  carnival  ? 
Victory,  victory  — 
O,   God  of   Freedom,  give  us  victory  ! 

Nerve  with   new  strength  the  patriot  soldier's  arm  ! 

Fill  with  new  zeal  the  hero-souls  that  stand, 
Pillars   of  fire,  to  save  from  deadliest  harm 

Their  children's  birthright  in  this  goodly  land  ! 
Victory,  victory  — 
God  of  our  heroes,  give  us  victory  ! 

For  the  sad  millions  of  the  groaning  earth, 

Ileli'less  and  crushed  beneath  oppression's  rod  ; 
For  every  hope   that  hallows  home  and   hearth  ; 
For  heaven-born   Liberty,  the  child  of  God, 
Victory,  victory  — 
God  of  the  nations,  give  us  victory  ! 


228  TEE  PRATER   OF  A  NATION. 

From  war's  red  hell,  involved  in   smoke  and   flame, 

From  up-piled  altars  of  our  noblest  dead 
We  cry   to  Tiiee !  0,  for  thy  glorious  name, 

Make    bare  thine    arm  and    smite    our  foes  with 
dread ! 

Victory,  victory  — 
O,  God  of  battles,  give  us  victory ! 

July  4th,  1863. 


THE    BANNER   OF    FREEDOM. 

i. 

'Tis   the  Banner  whose  folds  floated   over  our  sires 
When  the  trumpet's  shrill  blast  summoned  heroes 
to  war ; 
When    the    hills    were    aglow    with    their    signaling 
fires, 
Through  the  smoke-clouds  of   battle  it  shone  like 
a  star, 

And  our  bravest  and  best 

Came  at  Freedom's  behest 

To  strike  for  the  rights  of  a  people  oppressed, 

And  knelt  at  her  altars,  and  swore  to  be  true 

To    the    Banner  of    Freedom  —  the    red,  white,  and 

blue. 

II. 

Through  conflicts  and  perils,  while  over  their  sky 

The   night  of  disaster  gloomed  black  with  despair, 
Right  onward,  like  heroes,  to  do   or  to  die, 

They  followed   that  Banner  unfurled   to  the  air. 
Torn  by  shot  and  by  shell, 
O !  it  beaconed  them  well 


230        THE  BANNER     OF  FREEDOM. 

Through    the    red  storm  of    battle  and    up  from  its 

hell. 
Till    the    right    and    the    might    clasped    their  hands 

in  the  fight, 
And  victory  beamed  from  that  Banner  of   light ! 

in. 

Where  Treason,  grown  drunk  on  the    blood   of    the 
slave, 
Insanely  the  life  of  our  nation  assailed, 
Upheld   by  the  hands  of  the  loyal  and  brave, 

That   flag    was    the  sign    through  which   Freedom 
prevailed ! 

From  each  star-blazoned  fold, 
To  the  free  winds  unrolled, 
Spoke    the    souls  of    the    fathers   who    conquered  of 

old, 
And  bade  us,  their  children,  be  faithful  and  true 
To    that   battle-torn    Banner — the    red,    white,    and 
blue! 

IV. 

Unfurl  it  once  more  !  —  let  it  beacon   us  on, 

Not   to  fields  where  the    cannon-shot    ploughs  up 
its  path, 
But  to  those   where  the  triumphs  of    peace  may  be 
won 
By    the    weapons    of     truth,     never    wielded     in 
wrath  ; 


THE  BANNER   OF  FREEDOM.  231 

Hoary   Error  turns    pale 
As  they  smite  through  her  mail, 
And    the    hour    hastens  on  when    the    Right    shall 

prevail, 
And  the  Banner  of  Freedom   triumphantly   wave 
O'er  a  land    in    which    breathes    neither    tyrant    nor 
slave. 


ENFRANCHISED. 

Lo  !     truth    and     right    grow    stronger    and    more 

strong 
In  their  fierce  battle   with  the  false  and  wrong ; 
And  the  swift  years  sweep  onward  to  the  day 
Whose  dawn  shall    herald  Christ's  triumphant  sway, 
As  seers  have  prophesied  and  bards  have  sung 
In  the  far  ages  when   the  world  was  young; 
Catching  some  glimpses  of  millennial  light 
Behind  the  murk  of  all  involving  night, 
And  reading  the  sure  promise  of  the  Lord 
That  to  his   Eden  man  shall  be  restored ! 

Have  we  not  seen  how  Slavery's  hated  yoke 
Crumbled   to  dust  as  Abraham   Lincoln  spoke, 
And,  like  the  angel  of  the  Apocalypse, 
Proclaimed,    "  Here   ends    the    reign    of   chains    and 

whips  ! " 
How,  from  the  bondage  of  the  centuries, 
The  slave  arose  and  claimed  all  rights  as  his  ; 
Broke  from   his  soul   the  tyrant's  gyves  away, 
And  proved  his  manhood  in  the  deadly  fray  ; 
And,  better  still,  how  learning's   temple-door 
Swings  back  for  millions  of  the  wronged  and  poor, 


ENFRANCHISED.  233 

And  pours  her  light  on  many  a  darkened  mind, 
Which  easts,  so  touched,  the  old  slave  life  behind, 
And,  still  aspiring,  proves  its  right  to  be 
Known  as   God's  child,  whom   He  created  free ! 

And  still  with  cumulative  force  goes  on 
The  glorious   work  our  martyred   Chief   begun ; 
And  nobler  hopes  the  patriot's  heart  inspire, 
As  Freedom's  ebbless  ocean  rises   higher,. 
Its  cleansing  waters  making  sweet  the  shore 
So  darkly  stained   with   tears  and  human  gore. 


Wrenched  by   Rebellion  from  the  place  they  filled. 

The  shattered  States  doth  loyalty  rebuild; 

On  broad  foundations  of  eternal  right 

Base    the    strong    columns    that    are    crowned    with 

light ; 
A  deeper  wisdom  from  experience  draw, 
Bind  part  to  part   with   pure,  impartial  law, 
And  build  securely  what  henceforth  shall  be 
The  august  shrine  and  home  of  Liberty  ! 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

0,  sorely  tried,  yet  true  in  every  trial ! 
With  the  sad  burden  of  a  nation's  fate 
Laid    on    thy    heart,    not    crushed    beneath     the 
weight, 
But  witn  new  strength  endued  and  self-denial, 
And  serene   patience  -—  worthiest  thou  to  mate 
With  the  dear  Pater  Patriae !      Henceforth  Fame 
Keeps  for  thy  guerdon  a  still  prouder  name, 
Which  a  great  people,  saved  from  treason's  hate 
And  from   the  curse  which  gave  that  treason  birth, 
Shall  shout  exultant  to  the  populous  earth  — 
Salvator  Patriae!      So  thy  name  shall  be 
The  glorious   synonym   of  faith  sublime, 
A  power  and  impulse  to  the  after-time, 
A  household   word   wherever  man  is  free  ! 
May  \9th,  1862. 


SONNET. 

[A,  L.,  April  14th,  1865.] 

Never  lived  man   whose  heart  the  people's  heart 

Felt  as  it  felt  thine,  giving  throb  for  throb  ; 

Never  from  nations  went  so  deep  a  sob 
Of  sorrow  as  for  thee,   when   thou  didst  part 
From  the  great  work   whose  doing  made    thee  great 

Among  the  greatest !     Never  nobler  name 

Hath  history  given  to  the  ward  of  Fame 
Than  thine,  O  saviour  of  the  imperiled  state, 

Who    spoke     the    word     that    snapped    a    people's 
chains, 
And   flung  wide  open   Freedom's   temple-gate 

To  unborn   millions,  who  in   choral   strains, 
From   age  to  age  through  all  earth's  coming  days, 
Shall  link  thy  name  and  deed   to   deathless  praise, 

While     God's  "  Well  done  !  "    crowns    all,  —  thy 
gain  of  gains ! 

April  Uth,  1870. 


FAITH  AST)   ASPIRATION. 


"SHOW    US    THE    FATHER." 

Still,  as  of  old,  ascends  that  earnest  prayer 

From  souls  that  yearn  for  His  divine  embrace 
And,  rapt  in  adoration,  fain  would  dare 
Behold  Him  face  to  face. 

"  Show  us  the  Father  !  "  —  loved,  though  all  unseen 

Save  in  the  wondrous  working  of    His  hand, 
O  let  us,  with  no  cloud  to  intervene, 
In  that  dear  presence  stand. 

Ah !  vain  the  prayer  so  passionate  and  wild 

That  breathed  from  yearning  hearts  would  pierce 
the  skies, 
Yet  by  this  thought  shall  they  be  reconciled,  — 
'Tis  love  alone  denies. 

O  for  that  vision  to  whose  earnest  quest 

The  Father's  face  in  Nature  stands  revealed. 


"SHOW    US   THE  FATHER."  237 

In   ocean's  vastitnde,  the  mountain's  ciest, 
The  lilies  of  the  field  ; 

In   the  sky's   azure  and  the  sunset  glow, 

The  winter-tempest  and  the  summer  shower, 
And  in  all  life,   whose  flow  and  overflow 
Tell  of  His  love  and  power. 

Thus  only  by  His  marvelous   works  made  known 

To  the  dear  children  of    His  guardian  care, 

And  by  the  love  that  communes   with  our  own, 

His  wisdom  answers  prayer. 

We  would  see   God !  as  they,  the  pure  in  heart, 

See   Him  and  in  His  presence  stand  unblamed, 
Divinely  helped  to  choose  "  the  better  part " 
That  maketh  not  ashamed. 

We  would  see   God  !    in  the  sweet  consciousness 

That  comes  through  full  obedience  to   His   will, 
And  in  the  love  that  seeks   to  save  and  bless, 
And   all    His   law   fulfill. 

We   would  see   God  !    for  vain  is  human  strength 

That  leans  not  trustingly  on   Him  alone  ; 
So,  brought  through  darkness  into   light  at  length, 
Still   will   we  pray,  •'  Lead  on  !  " 


238  "SHOW  US    THE  FATHER." 

Nor  more  we  need,  nor  dare  we  ask  for  less 

But  shaping  life  on   Love's  divinest  plan, 
Taught  by  the  ministry  of  Helpfulness, 
We  shall  see   God  —  in  man. 


STILL    WILL    WE    TRUST. 

Still   will    we  trust,  though  earth    seem    dark  and 
dreary 
And  the  heart  faint  beneath   His  chastening  rod, 
Though  rough    and    steep    our    pathway,  worn    and 
weary, 

Still  will  we  trust  in   God ! 

Our  eyes  see  dimly  till   by  faith  anointed, 

And  our  blind  choosing  brings  us  grief  and  pain  ; 
Through  Him  alone  who  hath  our  way  appointed 
We  find  our  peace  again. 

Choose  for  us,  God  !  nor  let  our  weak  preferring 

Cheat  our  poor  souls  of  good  Thou  hast  designed  ; 
Choose  for  us,   God  !  thy  wisdom  is  unerring, 
And  we  are  fools  and  blind. 

from  our  *ky  the   night  shall   furl   her  shadows. 
And  day  pour  gladness  through  his  golden  gates  — 
Our  rough    path    lead    to  flower-enameled    meadows 
Where  joy  our  coming   waits. 


240  STILL  WILL    WE   TRUST. 

Let  us  press  on  in  patient  self-denial, 

Accept  the  hardship,  shrink  not  from  the  loss  ; 
Our  guerdon  lies  beyond  the  hour  of  trial, 
Our  crown  beyond   the  cross. 


«NON   OMNIS    MORIAR. 


Over  the  blackness  of  my  hair 

Comes  the  frost  of  age  and  care ; 

Streaks  of  silver  intertwine 

With  dark  locks,  through  which  they  shine 

With  premonitory  gleam  ; 

Prophets  of  the  time  are  they, 
Of  the  swiftly  coming  day 

When  shall  end  this  fever  dream, 

And  no  more   the  busy   brain 

With  its  subtle  thoughts  and  fancies, 
The  soul's  wondrous  necromancies, 

Thrill  to  pleasure  or  to  pain. 

In  the  sluggish  pulse,  the  slow 

Life-tide,  with  its  ebb  and  flow, 

I  can  hear  a  murmurous  sound, 

As  if  from  my  soul's  profound, 

Whispering  very  sweet  and  low, 
Spirits  called  me ;   low  and  sweet, 
Pulse  by  pulse  the   words  repeat  — 
'•  Linger  not  when  bidden  to  go !  " 
16 


242  "NON    OMNIS  MORIAR." 

List,  my  soul !   that  warning  tone 
Not  of  sadness  breathes  alone  ; 
Something  of  promise,  good  and  fair, 
Something  of  prophecy  is  there, 
Of  a  future  which  shall  be 

Better,  brighter,  holier  far 
Than   earth's  life  can  give  to  thee  ; 
0,  surpassing  all  we  know 
Or  of  good  or  pure  below  — 

"  Non   Omnis  Moriar  !  " 

ii. 

Shadows,  I  know  not  how  or  why, 
Day  by  day  creep  o'er  mine  eye ; 
And  the  fire   that  once  was  hid 
Underneath  the  drooping  lid, 
Or,  my  soul  with  passion  fraught, 
Flashed  the  lightning  of  my  thought, 
Gleams  but  seldom  now,  and  faintly : 
Even  the  noon-day  seemeth  dim  ; 
Hills,  by  brightest  sunshine  kissed, 
Swell  beneath  a  robe  of  mist, 
Or  in  shimmering  vapor  swim  ; 
And  the  trees  by  twos  and  threes, 
Deftly  shaken  by  the  breeze, 
Waltz   to  music,  slowly,  quaintly. 
Ah,  this  treason  of  the  eye  ! 
Whence  is  it,  or  how,  or  why? 


"NON   OMNIS  MORIAR."  243 

Tells  it  not  that  night  is  nigh  ? 
The  still  night,  unstirred   by  breath, 

Through  whose   dark  shines  never  a  star, 
The  vague  opaque  which  men  call  death  ? 

Yet  —  "  Non  Omnis  Moriar  !  " 

in. 

A  quick  coming  weariness, 
"When   with  laggard  pace  I  tread 

Olden  paths  where  once,  as  fleet 

As  the  roe,  I  sprang  to  greet 
The  morn,  dawning  dim  and  red, 
Now  doth  every  limb  oppress  : 
Wearily   they  follow  still 
The  slow  motions  of  my  will, 
Wearily,  but  soon  give  o'er  : 
Youth,  with  lithe  and  supple  thews, 
Passed  as  pass  the  morning  dews  — 
Vanished  youth  returns   no    more  ! 
Now  I  tread  the  solemn  shore 
Of  that  sea  whose  vastitude 
Mortal  eye  hath  never  viewed, 
Never  mariner  did  explore  ; 
And  its  thund'rous  organ-roll, 

Booming  grandly  from  afar, 
Pours  its  anthem  on   my  soul, 
With   a   many-voiced   refrain, 
Heard  again  —  again  —  again  — 

"  Non   Omnis    Moriar  !  " 


244  "NON  OMNIS  MORIAR. 


IV. 

As  the  dew  that  bends  the  grass, 
As  the  breath   that  stains  the  glass, 
As   the  morning's  floating  mist 
By  the  fervid  sunbeam  kissed, 
As  the  pageant  of  a  dream, 
As  the   lapsing  of  a  stream, 
As  the  hope  that  glorifies 
Youth,  and  with  its  day-spring  dies, 
As  the  rapture  which  is  sweetest, 
As  whatever  thing  is  fleetest, 
Life,  with  all  that  it  can  borrow 
From  the  world  of  joy  or  sorrow, 
All  its  petty  conflicts  o'er, 
Passes,  and  is  known  no  more. 

Nay,  one  hope  remains  to  bar 
The  despair  that  else  would  gloom 
Over  the  portals  of  the  tomb  — 

"  Non  Omnis  Moriar  !  " 


Something  of  me,  when  men  have  said 
Speak  kindly  of  him  —  he  is  dead  !  " 
Something  that  doth  appertain 
To  throbbing  heart  and  thinking  brain, 
Shall,  when  I  have  passed,  remain  : 
The  memory  of  some  sweet  thought, 


"NOX   OMNIS  MORIAR."  245 

Or  good  deed  in  kindness  wrought, 

Verse  of  mine,  perchance,  impressed 

With  the  love  that  fills  my  breast, 

Or  its  woe  and  wild   unrest, 

Shall,  enshrined  in  some  fond  heart, 

Of  its  very  life  a  part, 

Live  on,  and  with  sweet  constraint, 

Hold  it  to  my  memory  — 

Thus  "I   shall  not  wholly  die." 

Then,  soul !    let  nor  pain,  nor  fear, 

Nor  the  wrong  that  shadows  life, 

Nor  hate,   with  which  thou  art  at  strife, 

Claim  the  tribute  of  a  tear, 

Or  the  language  of  complaint. 

Henceforth,  naught  thy  peace  should  mar: 
Deeper  than  thy  fears  or  woes 
Sinks  the  spirit  of  repose, 
"When  triumphant  faith  can  cry, 
"  From  death  I  wrest  the  victory  ! 
No  n  Omnis   Moriar  !  " 

VI. 

But  the  heart  must  yield  its  trust, 
And  its   memory  be  as  dust 
When,  at  length,  it  bows  before 
Earth's  exulting   Conqueror ! 
Earth   itself  (so  prophets  say) 
In  the   flames  shall  pass  away, 


246  "NON   OMNIS  MORIAR" 

And  the  heavens  together  roll 
Like  a  crisped  and  burning  jscroll, 
And  its  myriad  orbs  expire 
In  a  baptism  of  fire. 
Yet  even  then  the  soul  can  cry, 
"  Nay,  I  shall  not  wholly  die  !  " 
From  its  place  though  earth  be  driven, 
Though  shall  fade  the  stars  from  heaven, 
'    Though  the  regnant  sun  be  hurled 
From  his  throne  above  the  world, 
And  in  fervent  heat  be  blent 
Every  fusing  element, 

Still,  outliving  sun  and  star, 
In  a  life  serene  and  high, 
Clothed  with  immortality, 

Victor  over  death  and  hell, 
I  my  triumph-song  will   swell, 

"  Non  Omnis  Moriar  !  " 


"LET    THERE    BE    LIGHT!' 

When  moved  upon  the  waveless  deep 

The  quickening   Spirit  of  the  Lord, 
And  broken  was  its  pulseless  sleep 

Before  the   Everlasting  Word, 
Earth  heard  the  voice  "  Let  there  be  light ! 

O'er  sullen   wastes   of  chaos  borne, 
And  from  the  dark  embrace  of  night 

Sprang  up  to  greet  her  earliest  morn  ! 

No  longer  void,  her  bosom  teemed 

"With  life  of  tree,  and  plant,  and  flower  ; 
Nor  formless  more,  as  o'er  her  streamed 

The  sunlight  in  a  golden  shower  ! 
"What  wondrous  beauties   stood  revealed 

As  in  creation's  march  she  trod, 
While  suns  and  stars  around  her  wheeled 

Obedient  to  the  voice  of  God  ! 

Then  from  the  choirs  celestial  rang 
Triumphantly   the  notes  of  song, 

While  morning  stars  together  sang 

In   concert   with   the  heavenly   throng ; 


248    .  "LET   THERE  BE  LIGHT." 

With  eager  joy  she  caught  the  strain 
That  thrilled  along  her  fields  of  air, 

Till  mount  and  valley,  hill  and  plain, 

Seemed  tremulous  with  praise  and  prayer. 

O  Thou,  who  art  the  fount  of  light, 

Pour  light  our  darkened  souls  within ! 
Speak  the  strong  word  again,  whose  might 

Shall  scatter  all  the  murk  of  sin  ; 
And  let  thy  quickening  Spirit  move 

O'er  the  wild  wastes  of  doubt  and  fear, 
Till  order,  beauty,  faith,  and  love, 

Bright  with  thy  sovereignty  appear ! 


GOOD   IN   ILL. 

When  gladness  gilds  our  prosperous    day, 
Aud  hope  is  by  fruition  crowned,   * 
"  0   Lord,"  with  thankful  hearts  we  say, 
"  How  doth  thy  love  to  us  abound  ! " 

But  is  that  love  less  truly  shown 

When  earthly  joys  lie  cold  and  dead, 

And  hopes  have  faded  one  by  one, 
Leaving  sad  memories  in  their  stead  ? 

God  knows  the  discipline  we  need, 
Nor  sorrow  sends  for  sorrow's  sake ; 

And  though  our  stricken  hearts  may  bleed, 
His  mercy  will  not  let  them  break. 

O,  teach  us  to  discern  the  good 
Thou  sendest  in  the  guise  of  ill ; 

Since  all  Thou  dost,  if  understood, 
Interpreteth  thy  loving  will. 

For  pain  is  not  the  end  of  pain, 
Nor  seldom  trial  comes  to  bless, 


250  GOOD  IN  ILL. 

And  work  for  us  abundant  gain, — 
The  peaceful  fruits  of  righteousness. 

Then  let  us  not,  with  anxious  thought, 
Ask  of  to-morrow's  joys  or  woes, 

But  by   His  word  and   Spirit  taught, 
Accept  as  best  what  God  bestows. 


"IN  THE   NIGHT    SEASON." 

Lord,    give    us    rest !     Night's    shadows    round  us 
close, 
Hushing  the  tumult  of  the  voiceful  day ; 
Over  our  souls  let  thy  divine  repose 
Assert  its  gentle  sway. 

The  night  is  thine  ;    its  skies  above  us  bent 

Glitter  with   worlds  all  fashioned    by  thy  hand  — 
The  radiant  armies  of  the  firmament, 
Marshaled  at  thy  command. 

Rank  upon   rank  the  shining  squadrons  press 

Through   the  far   spaces  which    no  eye  can  scan  ; 
Thy  mercies,  Lord,  like  them  are  numberless, 
Showered  upon  sinful  man  ! 

We  read   thy  record  in   the  starry  sky, 

Nor  less  we  trace  it  in  earth's  lowliest  flower  ; 
And,  in  adoring   wonder,  magnify 

Thy  goodness  and  thy  power. 


252  "IN  THE  NIGHT  SEASON." 

Yet,  when  we  view  thy  works,  so  vast,  so  fair, 

Till  fails  our  vision  in  the  distance  dim, 
"Lord,  what  is  man,"  we  sob  amid  our  prayer, 
"That  thou  shouldst  visit  him?" 

Formed  in  thine  image,  with  thy  glory  crowned, 

O,  let  thy  love  our  yearning  spirits  fill ; 
And  be  our  will,  in  all  life's  changes,  found 
Obedient  to  thy  will  ! 


ADMONITION. 


i. 


Ah,    how  soon  are  purest  feelings  lost 

When  by  pride  or  passion  breathed  upon  ! 

Frailer  than  the  tracery  of  frost 

On  the  window  where  looks  in  the  sun ! 

Angels  will  not  linger  in  the  heart 

Where  a  thought  of  evil  dares  to  dwell ; 

Goodness  seeketh  aye  its  counterpart ; 
Heaven  was  never  married  unto  hell ! 

Seeks  thy  soul  to  hold  communion  high 
With  the  spirits  of  a  world  divine? 

Upward  let  it  look  with  single  eye, 
And  the  blessed  intercourse  is  thine. 

Sternly  banish  every  wrong  desire, 

Every  thought  that  is  not  pure  repress, 

And  with  purpose  rising  high  and  higher, 
Struggle  after  perfect  holiness  ! 


254  ADMONITION. 

Vainly  shall  the  once-besetting  sin 

Strive  to  turn  thee  from  thine  upward  way  ; 
Victory  o'er  the  tempter  shalt  thou  win, 

By  thy  faith  prevailing  :   watch  and  pray  ! 

Every  conflict  with  opposing  wrong, 
Every  effort  for  the  true  and  right, 

Nerves  thy  soul  anew,  and  makes  it  strong 
Still  to  struggle  in  the  moral  fight. 

Doubt  not  of  thy  triumph !     Lo  !  a  power 

Guides    and    guards    thee    through  the    thickest 
strife, 

And  shall  crown  thee  in  thy  victor-hour 
With  the  garlands  of  eternal  life  ! 

ii. 

Stormy  passions,  with  a  pen  of  steel, 

Write  their  record  on  the  human  heart ; 

Grows  the  tracery  fires  of  sin  anneal, 
Deep  and  deeper  as  the  years  depart. 

Perish  hopes  that  holy  made  its  youth  ; 

Fades  the  promise  of  its  golden  prime  ; 
Meek  affections,  sympathies  and  ruth, 

Sweepeth  over  all  the  tide  of  crime. 

Downward  presseth  evermore  the  soul 
That  is  wedded  to  its  hideous  sin  ; 


ADMONITION.  255 

Downward  madly  to  the  dreadful  goal 
Spirits  hating  purity  must  win. 

In   the  path  that  leadeth  from  the  light, 
Every  footfall  soundeth  like  a  knell  ! 

Darklier  o'er  the  spirit  gathers  night, 
Blackest  horrors  thick  around  it  dwell ! 

Lost  the  brightness  of  its  earlier  day, 
All  its  longings  for  the  holy  lost  ; 

Like  a  wreck  whose  helm  is  torn  away, 
On  the  waves  of  error  see  it  tossed  ! 

Hapless  spirit !    heedless  of  its  birth, 
Mad  to  drink  the  bitter  cup  of  woes, 

Dark  hath  been   thy  pilgrimage  on  earth, 
Darker  still  that  pilgrimage  shall  close  ! 

Ye  who  linger  on  forbidden  ground, 
Dreadful  is  your  recompense,  and  sure  ! 

For  the  blessedness  of  peace  is  found 
Only  by  the  holy  and  the  pure  ! 


"REJOICE   IN   THE   LORD  ALWAYS." 

Their  brows  should  wear  a  holy  light, 
Who  front  the  heavens  serenely  bright ; 
And  gladness  should  their  steps  attend 
Who  walk  with  God  as  with  a  friend. 

For  every  footfall  of  their  way 
But  brings  them  nearer  to  the  day 
That  knows  no  night,  and  to  the  joy 
Nor  grief  can  mar,  nor  sin  alloy. 

Fixed  in  the  path  that  He  hath  trod, 
Their  lives  are  hid  with   Christ  in   God, 
And  dwell  secure  from  every  harm, 
Encircled  by  the  Father's  arm. 

Behind  the  cloud,  above  the  storm, 

His  sunlight  lingers  soft  and  warm ; 

And  even   through  midnight's  gloomiest  pall 

Some  beams  of  mercy  gently  fall. 

However  dark  the  frown  of  fate, 
God  will  His  promise  vindicate, 


"REJOICE  IN   THE  LORD  ALWAYS."  257 

And  in  His  own  good  time  and  way, 
Bring  in  the  full  and  perfect  day  — 

In  whose  glad  light  shall  disappear 
All  that  perplexed  and  troubled  here, 
And  show  the  weary  path  they  trod, 
As  the  one  path  whose  end  is  —  God ! 
17 


"BLESSED   ARE    THEY   THAT   MOURN." 

O,  deem  not  that  earth's  crowning  bliss 

Is  found  in  joy  alone  ; 
For  sorrow,  bitter  though  it  be, 

Hath  blessiDgs  all  its  own  ; 
From  lips  divine,  like  healing  balm, 

To  hearts  oppressed  and  torn, 
This  heavenly  consolation  fell  — 

"  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn  !  " 

As  blossoms  smitten  by  the  rain 

Their  sweetest  odors  yield  — 
As  where  the  ploughshare  deepest  strikes 

Rich  harvests  crown  the  field, 
So,  to  the  hopes  by  sorrow  crushed, 

A  nobler  faith  succeeds ; 
And  life,  by  trials  furrowed,  bears 

The  fruit  of  loving  deeds. 

Who  never  mourned,  hath  never  known 

What  treasures  grief  reveals : 
The  sympathies  that  humanize, 

The  tenderness  that  heals, 


"BLESSED  ARE   TREY   TEAT  MOURN."        259 

The  power  to  look  within  the  veil 

And  learn  the  heavenly  lore, 
The  key-word  to  life's  mysteries, 

So  dark  to  us  before. 

How  rich  and  sweet  and  full  of  strength 

Our  human  spirits  are, 
Baptized  into  the  sanctities 

Of  suffering  and  of  prayer  ! 
Supernal  wisdom,  love  divine, 

Breathed  through  the  lips  which  said, 
0,  blessed  are  the  souls  that  mourn  — 

They  shall  be  comforted  !  " 


OUR   REFUGE. 

Though  darkness  gather  round  our  path, 

And  angry  clouds  the  sky  deform, 
Yet  doubt  not,  in  its  fiercest  wrath, 
God  sits  serene  above  the  storm 

We  suffer,  but  He  knows  it  all,  — 
Our  fears,  anxieties,  and  pain  ; 

And  Love,  that  notes  the  sparrow's  fall, 
No  trial  sends  to  us  in  vain. 

He  hears  and  heeds  our  feeblest  cries, 
And  knows  what  lot  for  us  is  best ; 

In  what  He  gives  and  what  denies, 
His  care  alike  is  manifest. 

We  choose,  and  He  annuls  our  choice, 
Because  His  eye  discerns  the  end  ; 
And  if  He  chide,  'tis  with  the  voice, 
The  tender  accents  of  a  friend. 

Then   let  us  trust  Him  and  obey, 

Through  all  life's  trials  yet  to  come  ; 

Better  than  we  He  knows  the  way 
That  leads  the  pilgrim  to  his  home. 


NEEDED   BLESSINGS. 

We  ask  not  that  our  path  be  always  bright, 
But  for  thy  aid  to  walk  therein  aright ; 
That  Thou,  O  Lord,  through  all  its  devious  way, 
Wilt  give  us  strength  sufficient  to  our  day, 
For  this,  for  this  we  pray. 

Not  for  the  fleeting  joys  that  earth  bestows, 
Not  for  exemption  from  its  many  woes ; 
But  that,  come  joy  or  woe,  come  good  or  ill, 
With  childlike  faith  we  trust  thy  guidance  still, 
And  do  thy  holy  will. 

Teach  us,  dear  Lord,  to   find  the  latent  good 
That  sorrow  yields,  when  rightly  understood  ; 
And  for  the  frequent  joy  that  crowns  our  days, 
Help  us  with  grateful  hearts  our  hymns  to  raise, 
Of  thankfulness  and  praise. 

Thou  knowest  all  our  needs,  and  wilt  supply; 
No  veil  of  darkness  hides  us  from  thine  eye, 
Nor  vainly,  from  the  depths,   on  Thee  we  call ; 
Thy  tender  love,  that  breaks  the  tempter's  thrall, 
Folds  and   encircles  all. 


262  NEEDED  BLESSINGS. 

Through    sorrow    and    through     loss,    by    toil    and 

prayer, 
Saints  won  the  starry  crowns  which  now  they  wear ; 
And  by  the  bitter  ministry  of  pain, 
Grievous  and   harsh,  but  O,  not  sent  in  vain, 
Found  their  eternal  gain. 

If  it  be  ours,  like  them,  to  suffer  loss, 
Give  grace,  as  unto  them,  to  bear  our  cross, 
Till,  victors  over  the  besetting  sin, 
We,  too,  thy  perfect  peace  shall  enter  in, 
And  crowns  of  glory  win. 


DOMINE,   NE    IN    FURORE. 


From  profoundest  depths  of  tribulation, 
Lord,  I  4ift  my  earnest  cry  to  Thee  ! 

O,  rebuke  me  not  iu  indignation, 
Nor  in  thy  displeasure  chasten  me. 

With  my  groaning  I  am  very  weary ; 

All  the  night  I  wet  my  couch  with  tears  ; 
All    the  day  my  plaintive  miserere 

Bears  to  Thee  the  burden  of  my  fears. 

O'er  my  soul  have  rolled   the  floods  of  anguish  ; 

Every  light  hath  faded  from  my  sky  ; 
And  in  darkness  I  am  left  to  languish, 

Till   Thou  send  me  succor  from  on   high. 

From  my  weary  foot  hath  passed  the  lightness 
Of  the  bounding  step  of  earlier  years, 

And  mine  eye  hath  lost  its  youthful  brightness. 
Dimmed  by  sorrow  and  continual  tears. 


264  DO  MINE,  NE  IN  FURORE. 

Sick  and  helpless,  and  of  hope  divested, 
In  my  weakness  and  my  sore  distress, 

Be  thy  healing  mercy  manifested, 

And  with  peace  my  troubled  spirit  bless! 

Wherefore  should  I  die  ?  since  with  the  living 
Only  dwell  remembrances  of  Thee ; 

From  the  grave  ascendeth  no  thanksgiving, 
Psalm,  or  laud,  or  benedicite ! 


ii. 


IN    DOMINO    CONFIDO. 

Not  in  vain  I  poured  my  supplication, 
Voiced  in  anguish  that  was  nigh  despair  ; 

God,  henceforth  the  Rock  of  my  salvation, 
Hears  in  pity  and  receives  my  prayer. 

On  his  name,  from  midst  the  darkness  calling, 
He  my  soul  hath  ransomed  from  its  fears, 

By   his  strength  my   feet  are  saved  from  falling, 
And  His  love  hath  dried  my  flowing  tears. 

Therefore  come  I  to  His  altars,  bringing 
Hymns  and  vows  my  gratitude  would  pay  ; 

Hallelujahs  and  the  voice    of  singing 
Best  interpret  all  the  heart  would  say. 


DOMINE,  NE  IN  FURORE.  265 

Henceforth,  with  a  spirit  meek  and  lowly, 
With  a  faith  that  nothing  can  appall, 

Hopes  serene,  and  purpose  high  and  holy, 
I  will  meet  whatever  may  befall. 

If  around  me  clouds  and  darkness  gather, 
Lo.  the  brighter  day  that  dawns  beyond  ! 

Through  the  gloom  the  Everlasting  Father 
Sends  a  voice  that  bids  me  not  despond. 

By  His   mercy  which  hath  never  failed  me, 
Over  Hate  and  Falsehood's  brood  abhorred, 

Over  all  the  foes  that  have  assailed  me, 
I  shall  triumph  greatly  through  the  Lord  ! 


MISERERE    DOMTNE. 

Thou,  who  look'st  with  pitying  eye 
From  thy  radiant  home  on  high 
On  the  spirit  tempest-tossed, 
Wretched,  weary,  wandering,  lost ; 
Every  ready  help  to  give, 
And  entreating,  "  Look  and  live  ! " 
By  that  love,  exceeding  thought, 
Which  from  heaven  the   Saviour  brought 
By  that  mercy   which  could  dare 
Death  to  save  us  from  despair, 
Lowly  bending  at  thy  feet, 
Lifting  heart  and  voice  to  Thee  — 
Miserere  Domine  ! 


With  the  vain  and  giddy  throng, 
Father,  we  have  wandered  long ! 
Eager  from  thy  paths  to  stray, 
Chosen  the  forbidden  way  ; 
Heedless  of  the  light  within, 
Hurried  on  from  sin  to  sin, 
And  with  scoffers  madly  trod 
On  the  mercy  of  our  God ! 


MISERERE  DO  MINE.  267 

Now,  to  where  thine  altars  burn, 
Penitently  we  return  : 
Though  forgotten,  Thou  hast  not 
To  be  merciful  forgot ; 
Hear  our  suppliant  cries  to  Thee  — 
Miserere  Doraiue  ! 


From  the  burden  of  our  grief, 
Who  but  Thou  canst  give  relief? 
Who  can  pour  salvation's  light 
On  the  darkness  of  our  night? 
Bowed  our  load  of  sin  beneath, 
Who  redeem  our  souls  from  death  ? 
If  in  man  we  put  our  trust, 
Scattered  are  our  hopes  like  dust ! 
Smitten  by  thy  chastening  rod, 
Lo,  we  cry  to  Thee,  our  God! 
From  the  perils  of  our  path, 
From  the  terrors  of  thy  wrath, 
Save  us   when  we  look  to  Thee  — 
Miserere  Domine ! 

Where  the  pastures  greenly  grow, 
Where  the  waters  gently  flow, 
And  beneath  the  sheltering  Rock 
With  the  Shepherd  rests  the  flock  — 
O,  let  us  be  gathered  there, 
Under  thy  paternal  care; 


268  MISERERE  DOMINE. 

Love  and  labor  and  rejoice 
With  the  people  of  thy  choice, 
Till  the  toils  of  life  are  done, 
And  the  crown  with  heavenly  glow 
Sparkles  on  the  victor's  brow! 
Hear  the  prayer  we  lift  to  Thee,  — 
Miserere  Domine  ! 


THANKSGIVING. 

"  Lord,  I  believe ;   help  Thou  mine  unbelief ! " 
Thus  in  its  anguish  cried  my  soul  to  Thee 
And  Thou  didst  hear  and  heal  its  bitter  grief, 
And  from  its  weary  bondage  set  it  free. 

At  thy  command  the  shadows    rolled  away, 
Tlie  fetters  crumbled  that  had  held  me  long ; 

Kindled  the  dawn-light  into  perfect  day, 

And  changed  the  voice  of  weeping  into  song. 

Thy  love  was  equal  to  my  sorest  need, 

When  I  was  naked,  hungry,  sick,  and  blind  ; 

Clothed,  fed,  healed,  seeing,  now  I  know  indeed 
Thou  art  a  Saviour  pitiful  and  kind. 

To  Thee  who  heard  the  cry  of  my  despair, 

My  hope  shall    cling    through  all    life's    devious 
ways; 

Thou  who  in  mercy  answeredst  my  prayer, 
Deign  to  accept  my  hymns  of  grateful  praise. 


A   PRAYER   FOR    GUIDANCE. 

Lead  us,  O  Father,  in  the  paths  of  peace ! 

Without   thy  guiding  hand  we  go  astray, 
And  doubts  appall,  and  sorrows  still  increase ; 

Lead    us    through    Christ,    the    true    and    living 
Way. 

Lead  us,  O  Father,  in  the  paths  of  truth ! 

Unhelped  by  Thee,  in  error's  maze  we  grope, 
While  passion  stains  and  folly  dims  our  youth, 

And  age  comes  on  uncheered  by  faith  or  hope. 

Lead  us,  O  Father,  in  the  paths  of  right ! 

Blindly  we  stumble  when  we  walk  alone, 
Involved  in  shadows  of  a  moral  night ; 

Only  with  Thee  we  journey  safely  on. 

Lead  us,  O  Father,  to  thy  heavenly  rest ! 

However  rough  and  steep  the  pathway  be ; 
Through  joy  or  sorrow  as  Thou  deemest  best, 

Until  our  lives  are  perfected  in  Thee  ! 


FAITH'S   REPOSE. 

Father,  beneath  thy  sheltering  wing 

In  sweet  security  we  rest ! 
And  fear  no  evil  earth  can  bring, 

In  life,  in  death,  supremely  blest. 

For  life  is  good,  whose  tidal  flow 
The  motions  of  thy  will  obeys  ; 

And  death  is  good,  that  makes  us  know 
The  life  divine  that  all  things  sways. 

And  good  it  is  to  bear  the  cross, 
And  so  thy  perfect  peace  to  win ; 

And  naught  is  ill,  nor  brings  us  loss, 
Nor  works  us  harm,  save  only  sin. 

Redeemed  from  this,  we  ask  no  more, 
But  trust  the  love  that  saves,  to  guide 

The  grace  that  yields  so  rich  a  store, 
Will  grant  us  all  we  need  beside. 


«TE  DEUM  LAUDAMUS." 

Myriad  voices,  God,  to  Thee 
Shout  from  earth  and  air  and  sea ! 
While  on  high  the  angel-throng 
Raise  a  louder,  bolder  song  — 
"Holy!  holy!"  thus  they  cry 
Through  the  vast  immensity, 
And  creation's  farthest  bound 
Vibrates  to  the  rapturous  sound. 

"  Holy  !  holy  ! "     we  would  join 
In  that  chorus  all  divine  ; 
With  seraphic  choirs  above 
Sing  thy  ever-during  love, 
Till  or  hearts  are  all  aflame 
With  the  glory  of  thy  name, 
And  with  rapture  evermore 
Love  and  worship  and  adore ! 


«  BLESSED    ARE   THE    PURE    IN    HEART." 

They  who   have  kept  their  spirit's  virgin  whiteness 

Undimmed  by  folly  and  unstained  by  sin, 
And  made    their  foreheads    radiant  with    the  bright- 
ness 
Of  the  pure  truth  whose  temple  is  within  — 
They  shall  see  God. 

Freed  from  the  thrall  of  every  sinful  passion, 
Around  their  pathway  beams  celestial  light; 

They  drink  with  joy  the   waters  of  salvation, 
And  in   His  love  whose  love  is  infinite  — 
They  shall  see  God. 

Though  •  clouds    may    darken     into    storms     around 
them, 
The  promise  pours  through  all   its  steady  ray  ; 
Nor  hate  can  daunt  nor  obloquy  confound  them, 
Nor  earth's    temptations  lure  them  from  the  way 
That  leads   to   God. 

They  shall  see   God  !  O,  glorious  fruition 

Of  all  their  hopes  and  longings  here  below  ! 
18 


274   "BLESSED  ARE  TEE  PURE  IN  HEART." 

They  shall  see    God  in  beatific  vision, 
And  evermore  into   His   likeness  grow  — 
Children  of  God  ! 

So  when  the  measure  of  their  faith  is  meted, 
And  angels  beckon  from  the  courts  on   high, 

Filled  with   all  grace,  the  work  divine  completed, 
They  shall  put  on  their  immortality, 

And  dwell  with   God! 


A    PSALM    OF    NIGHT. 

Fades  from  the  west  the  farewell  light 

Flung  backward  by   the  "setting  sun, 
And  silence  deepens,  as   the  night 

Steals   with  its  solemn  shadows  on. 
Gathers  the  soft,  refreshing  dew, 

On  spiring  grass  and  flow'ret  stems, 
And  lo,  the  everlasting  blue 

Is  radiant  with  a  thousand  gems  ! 

Not  only  doth  the  voiceful  day 

Thy  loving-kindness,   Lord,  proclaim, 
But  night,   with  its  sublime  array 

Of    worlds,  doth   magnify   thy  name  ! 
Yea,  while  adoring  seraphim 

Before  Thee  bend  the  willing  knee, 
From   every  star  a  choral   hymn 

Goes  up  unceasingly  to  Thee ! 

Day   unto  day  doth  utter  speech, 

And  night   to    night  thy    voice  makes  known  : 
Through  all  the  earth   where  thought  may  reach, 

Is  heard  the  glad  and  solemn  tone  ; 


276  A   PSALM   OF  NIGHT. 

And  worlds  beyond  the  farthest  star 

"Whose  light  hath  reached  a  human  eye, 

Catch  the  high  anthem  from  afar 
That  rolls  along  immensity ! 

O,  Holy  Father !  'mid  the  calm 

And   stillness  of  this  evening  hour, 
We  too  would  lrft  our  solemn   psalm 

To  praise  thy  goodness  and  thy  power; 
For  over  us,  as  over  all, 

Thy  tender  mercies  still  extend, 
Nor  vainly  shall  the  contrite  call 

On   Thee,  our  Father  and  our  Friend. 

Kept  by   thy  goodness   through  the  day. 

Thanksgiving  to   thy  name  we  pour  ; 
Night  o'er  us  with  its  stars,  we   pray 

Thy  love  to  guard  us  evermore  ! 
In  grief  console,  in  gladness  bless, 

In  darkness  guide,   in  sickness  cheer. 
Till,  perfected  in  righteousness, 

Our  souls  before  thy  throne  appear. 


SUPPLICATION. 

Forbid  my  feet  to  stray, 

O  Father,  from  the  way 
That  leads  to  Thee  and  to  thy  perfect  rest ; 

Though  rough  that  way  aud  steep, 

Right  onward  would  I  keep  : 
The  path  Thou  choosest  for  me  is  the  best! 

The  best,  though  on  its  flints 

My  feet  leave  bloody  prints, 
And  every   step  is  added  toil  and  pain  ; 

The  best,  though  hard   and  straight, — 

Since  through  its  narrow  gate, 
The   Golden  City  shall  my  soul  attain. 

Misled  by  sinful  pride, 

Too  long   I   turned  aside, 
Placing  in  human  wisdom  all   my  trust; 

Too  long,  in   sore-t  need, 

Leaned  on  a  broken  reed, 
And  fed  my  heart  with  hopes  that    turned    to  du.u. 


278  S  UPPLICA  TI  ON. 

I  thank  Thee  for  the  care 
That  waited  not  my  prayer; 

But  kindly  through  the  ministry  of  woe, 
By  loss  and  bitter  pain, 
Hath  called  me  back  again, 

To  taste  thy  love  and  thy  forgiveness  know. 

And  now,   thy  work  complete, 

Creator  !  Paraclete  ! 
Thy  will  be  done !  and  may  that  will  be  mine, 

Till  through   thy  grace  I  win 

The  victory  over  sin, 
And  all  my  soul  is  filled  with  love  divine. 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    LAND. 

There's   a  Beautiful   Land,  by  the  spoiler  uutrod, 

Unpolluted  by   sorrow  or  care ; 
It  is  lighted  alone  by  the  presence  of  God, 

Whose  throne    and  whose  temple  are  there: 
Its  crystalline  streams,  with  a  murmurous  flow, 

Meander  through  valleys  of  .green, 
And  its  mountains  of  jasper  are  bright  in  the  glow 

Of  a  splendor  no   mortal  hath  seen. 

And  throngs  of  glad  singers,  with  jubilant  breath. 

Make  the  air  with  their  melodies  rife  ; 
And  one  known  on   earth  as  the  Angel  of  Death. 

Shines  there  as  the  Angel  of  Life  ! 
An  infinite  tenderness  beams  from  his  eyes, 

On  his  brow  is   an  infinite  calm  ; 
And  his  voice,  as    it    thrills  through  the  depths    of 
the  skies, 

Is  as  sweet  as  the  seraphim's  psalm. 

Through  the  amaranth-groves  of  the  Beautiful    Land 
Walk   the  souls   who  were  faithful   in   this  ; 

And    their    foreheads,  star-crowned,  by    the    breezes 
are  fanned, 
That  evermore  murmur  of  bliss. 


280  TIIE  BEAUTIFUL  LAND. 

They   taste    the    rich    fruitage    that    hangs  from    the 
trees, 

And  breathe  the  sweet  odors  of  flowers, 
More  fragrant  than  ever  were  kissed  by  the   breeze 

In  Araby's  loveliest  bowers. 

Old  prophets,  whose  words  were  a  spirit  of  flame, 

Blazing  out  o'er  the  darkness   of  time  ; 
And  martyrs,  whose  courage  no  torture  could  tame, 

Nor  turn  from  their  purpose  sublime  ; 
And  saints  and  confessors,  a  numberless  throng, 

Who  were  loyal  to  truth  and  to  right, 
And    left,  as  they  walked   through    the  darkness  of 
wrong, 

Their  footprints  encircled  with  light; 

And  the  dear  little  children,  who  went  to  their  rest 
Ere  their  lives  had  been  sullied   by  sin, 

While  the  Angel  of  Morning  still  tarried,  a  guest, 
Their  spirits'  pure  temple   within  — 

All    are    there  —  all    are    there  —  in    the    Beautiful 
Land, 
The  land   by  the  spoiler  untrod, 

And    their  foreheads,    star-crowned,  by    the    breezes 


are  fanned 


Tliat  blow  from  the   Gardens  of  God  ! 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LAND.  281 

My  soul    bath    looked    in,  through  the    gateway  of 
dreams, 

On  the  city  all  paven  with  gold, 
And  heard  the  sweet  flow  of  its  murmurous  streams 

As  through  the  green  valleys  they  rolled  ; 
And  though  it  still  waits  on  this  desolate  strand, 

A  pilgrim  and  stranger  on  earth, 
Yet  it  knew,  iu  that  glimpse  of  the  Beautiful   Land, 

That  it  gazed  on  the  home  of  its  birth  ! 


A    MORNING    HYMN. 

Sing  to  the  Lord  !  the  shades  of  night 
At  His  command  have  passed  away, 

And  the  dim  morning's  doubtful  light 
Hath  brightened  to  the  full-orbed  day.  ■ 

Watched  by  that  Love  which  never  sleeps, 
Safe,  and  in   confidence,  we  slept ; 

Who  suns  and  stars  innumerous  keeps, 
His  servants  faithfully  has  kept. 

No  earthquake  shook,  no  hungry  flame, 
No  tempest  with  destroying  breath, 

At  midnight  to  our  dwelling  came, 

To  make  our  sleep  the  sleep  of  death. 

Thy  guardian  angels,  Lord,  were  near, 

To  smoothe  the  pulse  and  soothe  the  breast 

Nor  torturing  pain,  nor  haunting  fear, 
Broke  the  sweet  quiet  of  our  rest. 

Now,  called  to  duty  by   the   light, 

Our  morning  thanks  to  Thee   we  pay, 


A  MORNING  HYMN.  283 

For   the  kind  ministry  of  night, 
For  the  new  glory  of  the  day  ; 

For  life  preserved,  for  strength  renewed, 
For  the  dear  love  that  guards  us  still ; 

But  best   we  speak  our  gratitude 
By   wills  submissive   to   thy   will. 


FARMER'S    NOONDAY   HYMN. 

Noon  is  over  earth  :  the  flowers, 
Drooping,  wait  reviving  showers, 
And  the  flocks,  to  shun  the  heat, 
Seek  the  forest's  cool  retreat ; 
While  the  sun,  with  burning  eye, 
Glares  from  out  a  cloudless  sky, 
And  beneath  his  torrid  rays 
All  the  landscape  seems  ablaze. 

From  the  meadow  newly  shorn, 
Summoned  by   the  blatant  horn, 
Lo,   the   weary  reapers  haste 
To  their  bounteous  repast ! 
Simple   yet  delicious  fare, 
Spread  by  loving  hands  with  care  : 
Healthful  meats   with  odorous  steam, 
Fruits,  and  curds,  and  golden   cream, 
Water  clear  as  that  which  first 
From  the  founts  of  Eden  burst, 
Ere  along  their  margin  green 
Had  the  serpent's  trail  been  seen  — 
Such  the  banquet  that  invites 
Unperverted  appetites. 


FARMERS  NOONDAY  IIYMN.  28-5 

Gathered   round  our  ample  board, 
Let  us   thank  the  loving   Lord, 
And  to   Him  our  prayers   uplift, 
Giver  of  each  perfect  gift, 
Who  doth   all  our  needs  supply, 
Pouring  bounties  from  the  sky. 

Lo,  the  wide  extended  plain, 
Sentineled  with  sheaves  of  grain  ! 
Lo,  the  hill-sides,  where  the   maize 
Glimmers  in   the  noonday  blaze  ! 
Lo,  the  orchards,  through   whose  green 
Red  and  luscious  fruits  are  seen ! 
Lo,  the  vines,  whose  clustered  stores 
Wait  for  autumn's  sun   and  showers  ! 
Prophecies  by  nature  given, 
Pledges  of  the  truth  of  Heaven, 
That  successive  seasons  still 
Shall  his  promises  fulfill, 
And  reward  with   golden  sheaves 
Him  who  labors  and   believes. 

Not  alone  for  daily  food, 
But  for  every  needed  good, 
Trusting   Him  whose  sure  supply 
Feeds   the  ravens   when   they  cry, 
"We   in   faith  our   burdens  cast 
On  the  love  that   blessed   the  past, 


286  FARMER'S  NOONDAY  HYMN. 

And   from  thankful  hearts  our  prayer 
Still  invokes  a  Father's  care. 

Unto  Thee,  O   God,  alone 

Is   the  hidden  future  known  ; 

But  whatever  it  may  bring, 

Be  it  joy  or  suffering, 

Only   let  thy  spirit  dwell 

In  our  heart*,  and  all  is  well  ! 

Only  let  thy  grace  sustain, 

Hell   shall  hurl  its   shafts  in  vain  ; 

Earth  in  vain  its  lures  essay, 

To  beguile  us  from  our  way  ! 

Keep  us,  Father,  by  thy  power, 
Safe   through   every  changing  hour ; 
So  when  Death  with  sickle  keen, 
Gathers  thy  great  harvest  in, 
Ripe  for  heaven  may   we  be  found, 
Girded  by  thy  love  around, 
Freed  from   tares  of  hate  and  strife, 
Golden  sheaves  of  endless  life  ! 


EVENING   THANK-OFFERING. 

Through  the  changes  of  the  day, 

Kept  by  thy   sustaining  power, 
Offering  of  thanks  we  pay, 

Father,  in   this  evening  hour. 
Praises  to   thy  name  belong, 

Source  and   Giver  of  all  good ; 
While  we  lift  our  evening  song, 

Fill  our  souls  with  gratitude. 

From  the  dangers  which   have  frowned, 

From  the  snares  in   secret  set, 
"We  have  through   thy   mercy  found 

Safety  and  deliverance  yet. 
All  the  day  that  mercy  hath 

Guarded   us  from  ills   untold, 
All   the   day   along  our   path 

Scattered  blessings  manifold. 

Spirit,   who  hath  been  our  Light 
And    the    Guardian   of  our   way, 

Let  thy  mercy   and   thy   might 
Keep  us  to  another  day ; 


288  EVENING    THANK-OFFERING. 

Help  us,  Father,   so  to   spend 
All  our  moments  as   they  flee, 

That   when  life  and  labor  end, 
We  may  fall  asleep  in  Thee  ! 


"UPON   THE    WATCH-TOWER." 

O  Lord,  how  long  ?     We  watch  and  wait 

The  coming  of  that  better  day, 
When  love,  triumphant  over  hate, 

Shall  rule  the  earth  with  sovereign  sway  ; 
When  he  who  toils,  and  he  who  bleeds, 

The  promise  of  its  dawn   shall  see, 
And  slaves  of  power  and  slaves  of  creeds 

Shall  hear  the  word  that  makes  them  free. 

0   Lord,  how  long  ?     We  wait  and  watch  ; 

Night  lingers,  and  the  rough   wind  chills  ; 
We  strive  some  gleam  of  morn  to  catch, 

Slow   climbing  o'er  the  eastern  hills  — 
Some  glimpses  of.  the  herald  star, 

Whose  light  shall  tell  its  advent   near ; 
But  lo  !    the  darkness  wide  and  far, 

Blots  out  the  whole  broad  hemisphere  ! 

O  Lord,  how  long?      The  earth  is  old, 
And  reels,  sin-stricken,   to   its  doom, 

Burdened   with  sorrows  manifold, 

And   veiled   in  more  than   midnight  gloom  ; 
19 


290  "UPON   TEE    WATCH-TOWERS 

Her  children  weep  upon  her  breast, 

And,  heavenward,  eyes  of  suppliance  turn  ; 

Perplexed  by  doubts,  by  fears  distressed, 
Too  blind  thy  promise  to  discern. 

Yet  is  that  promise  sure!    and  sure 

The  coming  of  earth's  better  day, 
Though  long  the  night  of  wrong  endure, 

And   still  the  dawn  of  right  delay  ! 
O   make  us  brave  to   watch  and  wait 

The  hour  by  prophet-bards  foretold, 
When  thou  shalt  lift   the  Orient's  gate 

And  flood  the  "lands   with  morning's  gold! 


OPTIMUS. 


Hl   who  made  all   made  nought  in  vain 
Of  fair  or  foul,  of  mean  or  grand ; 
The  shores  no  needless  grain  of  sand 

Nor  needless  drop  the  seas  contain. 

Their  use  we  may  not  know,  yet  all 
Combine  to  form  a  perfect  whole  ; 
And  to  the  all-inclusive  soul 

There  can  be  neither  great  nor  small. 

The  flowers  that  bloom  upon  the  waste, 
Nor   win  the  glance  of  human  eye; 
The  gems  that  deep  in  caverns  lie  ; 

The  fruits  that  fall   where  none  may  taste ; 

The  coral  palaces  that  grow 

Beneath  the 'ever-murmuring  wave9, 
Homes  of  their  builders  and   their  graves, 

Wrought  through  the  centuries  moving  slow ; 


292  optimus. 

The  crystal  spires  that  gleam  and  flash 
In  sunlight  on  the  mountain's  crest, 
Above  the  loneliest  eagle's  nest, 

Above  the  storm,  the  thunder's  crash  — 

These  and  whate'er  He  bids  to  be, 
Are  needful  to  His  vast  domain ; 
Nor  falls   the  sunshine,  nor   the  rain, 

Vainly  on  desert  or  on  sea. 

ii. 

No  ill,  so  called,  is  only  ill ; 

No  grief  can  probe  the  heart  in   vain  ; 

No  pain  can   ultimate  in   pain ; 
No  loss  in  loss ;    no  death  can  kill : 

But  ever  since  the  world  began, 

Have  grief,  and  pain,  and  loss,  and  sin 
Helped  by  their  bitter  discij^line 

The  progress  of  still  erring  man. 

Life,  to  our  dim  half-seeing,  seems 
A  thing  to  fill  the  soul  with  fear; 
And  all  its  voices  pain  the  ear 

Like  cries  of  anguish  heard  in  dreams. 

But  the  clear  eye  that  scans  the  whole, 
Beyond  its  storm  can   see  the  calm  ; 


op  Tim  us.  293 

And  o'er  its  discords  sounds  a  psalm 
Of  triumph  to  the  prescient  soul : 

And  all   that  is,  or  dark  or  bright, 
All  that  fears,  hopes,  despairs,  exults, 
Helps  to  bring  in  the  large  results 

Of  love,  and  liberty,  and  light  — 

Helps  to  bring  back  to  truth's  control 
A  world  that  long  had  gone  amiss, 
And  give  to  life  its  crowning  bliss 

And  oneness  with  a  perfect  whole ! 


LOSS   AND    GAIN. 

Hoarding  can  but  bring  thee  loss  ; 

Wealth  is  found  alone  in  giving  ; 
Treasures  kept,  resolve  to  dross  ; 

Love  by  loving,  life  by  living, 
Still  augments,  and  richer  grows 
For  the  largess  it  bestows  : 
Outward-flowing,  it  shall   be 
Ever  flowing  back  to  thee. 

Thus  the  more  thou  giv'st,  the   more 

Still,  in  giving,  shall   be  thine  ; 
Thus  shall  thy  replenished  store 
Overflow  with  wealth  divine. 
Joy  and  peace  thy  heart  shall  fill, 
While  that  heart  shall  widen  still, 
Till  to  its  embrace  is  given 
All  of  good  in  earth  and  heaven. 


MATINS. 

For   the  dear  love  that  kept  us  through  the  night, 

And  gave  our  senses  to  sleep's  gentle  sway  — 
For  the  new  miracle  of  dawning  light 

Flushing  the  east   with   prophecies  of  day, 
We  thank  thee,  O  our   God ! 
• 
For  the  fresh  life  that  through   our  being  flows 

With  its  full  tide  to  strengthen  and  to   bless  — 
For  calm,  sweet  thoughts,  upspringing  from  repose 
To  bear  to  thee  their  song  of  thankfulness, 
We  praise  thee,  O  our   God ! 

Day  uttereth  speech  to  day,  and  night  to   night 
Tells  of  thy  power  and  glory.      So  would  we, 

Thy  children,  duly,  with   the  morning  light, 
Or  at  still   eve,  upon   the  bended  knee 
Adore  thee,  O  our  God  ! 

Thou  knowest  our  needs,  thy  fullness  will  supply  ; 

Our  blindness  —  let  thy   hand  still   lead   us  on. 
Till,  visited  by  the  dayspring  from  on   high, 

Our  prayer,  one  only,   "  Let  thy   will   be  done  ! " 
We  breathe  to  Thee,  O   God  ! 


THE    HARVEST-CALL. 

Abide  not  in  the  realm  of  dreams, 
0  man,  however  fair  it  seems, 
Where  drowsy  airs  thy  powers  repress 
In  languors  of  sweet  idleness. 

Nor  linger  in  the  mist^  past, 
Entranced  in  visions  vague  and  vast ; 
But  with  clear  eye  the  present  scan, 
And  hear  the  call  of  God  and  man. 

That  call,  though  many- voiced,  is  one, 
With  mighty   meanings  in  each   tone ; 
Through  sob  and  laughter,  shriek  and  prayer, 
Its  summons  meets  thee  everywhere. 

Think  not  in  sleep  to  fold  thy  hands, 
Forgetful  of  thy   Lord's  commands ; 
From  duty's  claims  no  life  is  free  — 
Behold,  to-day  hath  need  of  thee  ! 

Look  up  !  the  wide  extended  plain 
Is  billowy   with  its  ripened  grain, 


THE    HARVEST-CALL.  297 

And  on   the  summer-winds  are  rolled 
Its  waves  of  emerald  and  gold. 

Thrust  in  thy  sickle  !  nor  delay 
The  work  that  calls  for  thee  to-day : 
To-morrow,  if  it  come,  will  bear 
Its  own  demands  of  toil  and  care. 

The  present  hour  allots  thy  task  ! 
For  present  strength  and  patience  ask, 
And  trust  His  love   whose  sure   supplies 
Meet  all  thy  needs  as  they  arise. 

Lo !  the  broad  fields  with  harvests  white 
Thy  hands  to  strenuous  toil  invite  ; 
And  he  who  labors  and  believes 
Shall  reap  reward  of  ample  sheaves. 

Up,  for  the  time  is  short !  and  soon 
The  morning  sun   will  climb  to  noon  : 
Up!    ere  the  herd;*,   with  trampling  feet, 
Outrunning  thine,  shall  spoil  the  wheat. 

"While  the  day  lingers,  do  thy   best ! 
Full  soon   the  night   will   bring  its  rest ; 
And,  duty  done,  that  rest  shall  be 
Full  of  beatitudes  to  thee. 


ASPIRATION. 

Sitting  in  my  lonely  chamber, 

Listening  to  the  dismal  rain, 
As  its  melancholy  plashes 

Beat  against  my  window-pane,  — 
O,  what  troops  of  sombre  fancies 

Throng  the  chambers  of  the  mind, 
While  I  hear  the  dirge  of  summer 

In  the  moaning  of  the  wind ! 
While  I  hear  the  dying  summer 

Sobbing  o'er  its  latest  eve, 
Wailing  for  the  hoarded  glories 

That  forever  it  must  leave. 

Then  I  say,  "  How  brief  the  summer ! 

Yet  its  early  wealth  of  flowers, 
Ripened  into  golden   harvests, 

Though  it  passes,  shall  be  ours. 
Lo  !   the  apple-laden  orchards  ! 

Lo !  the  sheaves  of  gathered  grain  ! 
These,  the  largess  left  behind  her, 

Prove  she  hath  not  lived  in  vain  ! " 
So,  with  fervent  benedictions 

Linked,  her    memory  shall  be, 


ASPIRATION.  299 

When  the   winter  spreads  his  snow-pall 
Over  mountain,  moor,  and  lea. 

Passeth  rapidly  my  summer  ! 

Will  the  promise  of  its  flowers 
Be  fulfilled  in  golden   harvests 

When  are  gone  its  sunny  hours  ? 
Will   it  ripen   to  a  future 

Filled  with   memories  sweet  and  pure, 
That  shall  troop  like  angels  round  me  ? 

Or,  amid  the  world's  obscure, 
Shall  I  pass,  unsung,  forgotten, 

With  no  star-crown  on  my  brow  ? 
With  no  wail  from  broken  harp-strings  ? 

With  no  laurel's  drooping  bough  ? 
With  no  dirges  sobbed  in  anguish  ? 

With  no  grand,  exultant  strain 
Saying,  "  He  who  died  at  night-fall 

Shall  to-morrow  live  again  ! 
Live  in  sonjrs  that  cleave,  like  lightning, 

Through  oblivion's  heavy  pall, 
Changing  all  its  murk   to   splendor, 

Bright'ning,  glorifying  all  ; 
Live  in   thoughts  that  thrill  the  ages, 

(Though    his   body  is    in u rued) 
Like   the  fire  of  consecration 

On  Isaiah's  lips   that   burned  ! " 


300  ASPIRATION. 

I  would   wrest  the  meed  of  glory 

From  the  future's  iron  grasp, 
Or,  like   Egypt's   Cleopatra, 

Bare  my  bosom  to  the  asp  !  * 

What  to  me  were  life,  if  bounded 

By  the  present's  narrow  span  ? 
"Worthless  as  the  coffined  ashes 

Which  were  once  a  living  man  ! 
Let  the  sottish  and  the  sensual 

Rot  in  their  ignoble  rest  — 

I  would  make  the  earth  my  debtor 

Ere  I  sleep  upon  her  breast ! 
I  would  live  in  after-voices 

Chanting  my  melodious  rhyme, 
In  sublime  reverberations 

Sounding   through  remotest  time  ; 
In  the  thought  that  prompts  to  greatness  ; 

In   the  deed  that  shrines  a  name 
Hallowed  in  the  world's  affection, 

Doubly  consecrate  to  fame ! 
This  is  life! — the  flower  immortal 

Springing  from  the  earthly  clod  ; 
Life,   forever  broad'ning,  bright'ning, 

Till  'tis  perfected  in   God  ! 


OUR   OFFERING. 

"What  shall  we  lay  upon  thy  shrine, 
0   Lord !  as  tribute   worthy  Thee  ? 

The  gold  and  gems  of  earth  are  thine, 
And   thine  the  treasures  of  the  sea. 

Thine,  all  the  myrrh  the  grove  distills, 
The  nectar  of  the  vines'  full  veins, 

The  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills, 

The  billowy  harvests  of  the  plains. 

Thou   needest  neither  praise  nor  prayer, 
Nor  regal  gifts  of  costliest  price  ; 

The  glory  which  no  one  can  share, 
Doth  for  Infinity  suffice. 

But  we,  so  constantly  we  need 

Thy   watchful  love,   thy   guardian   care, 

Should  feel   that  we  were  lost  indeed, 
But  for  the  privilege   of  prayer. 

And   when   we  sum  the  rich  e.\ 

Of  mercy   that  has  crowned  our  day-, 


802  OUR    OFFERING. 

Our  hearts  are  filled  with  thankfulness, 
And  their  sweet  overflow  is  praise. 

These  hearts,  O  Lord  !  to  thee  we  bring 

And  ask  that  thou  wouldst  make  them  thine ; 

Touched  by  thy  love,  the  offering 
Poor  in  itself,  shall  be  divine. 


ORDINATION    HYMN. 

Father  !   thy  servant  waits  to  do  thy  will ! 

Called    to     thy    work,     O,    clothe    ltim    with     thy 
might, 
And   with   this  threefold  grace  his  spirit  fill  — 
Love,  liberty,  and  light ! 

"With  love,  for  the  dear  souls  that  thou  hast  made, 

And  for  the  truth   which  only  maketh  free  ; 
So,  with  all  patience,  faithful,  unafraid, 

He  shall  be  true   to  thee. 

"With  liberty,  that  where  thy   Spirit  leads, 

Follows,  whatever  faith  it  haves  behind, 
And  wears  no  fetters  formed  from  olden  creeds, 

That  blight  whate'er  they  bind. 

With  light,  an  effluence  of  the  Life  Divine, 

Before  which  error  falls  and  falsehood  dies, 
Leading  his  spirit  joyfully  to   thine, 

And   upward   to   the  skies. 


304  ORDINATION  HYMN. 

Thus,  furnished  for  his  work,  O  Father,  stand 

Close  by  his  side  to  give  that  work  success ; 
And  may  the  good  seed,  scattered  by  his  hand, 
Bear  fruits  of  righteousness ! 


GIFTS.1 


Not  as   the   world  gives,   God  to  us  doth  give  ; 
Xo  doubtful  good,  with  half-reluctaut  hand 
That  chides  the   taking  ;  but   an   amplitude 
Of  blessing,  vast  beyond   the  reach  of  thought, 
Rich   beyond  count,  and  constant  as  the  heavens, 
With  all  their  solemn   march  of  sun  and  stars, 
Whose   motions  know   no  pause  nor   weariness, 
Chiming  forever  to  the  rythmic  songs 
Of  angel-choirs,  He  presses  on   our  souls, 
And   most  rejoices  when   we  most  receive. 

ii. 

Then   let   as   take  as  greatly  as   He  gives ; 
Not   with  a  hand   that  challenges   the  gift, 
Or  seems   the   Giver's  goodness  to  impeach, 
Or  to   fix   bounds   to   His   beneficence; 
ljut  with   a  soul  all   open   to   receive, 
And  giouing  ampler  to  receive   the   more, 
The  more   His  love   bestows  ;   with   thankful i 
That  links    us   in   divinest   fellowship 

1  This  was  the  author's   last    poem,  and  \\a>  written   only  a   few 
weeks  before  he  died. 


306  GIFTS. 

To   Him  who  gives  all  good  and   perfect   gifts 
From  His  great  goodness  and   full    perfectness. 

in. 

So,  to  their  overflowing,  shall  our  hearts 
Be  filled   with   love  and  gracious  charities ; 
So  shall  we  learn,  no  more  to  be  unlearned, 
The  lesson,  most  divine,  of  doing  good, 
"Whence  goodness,  its  divine  necessity  ; 
So,  growing  in  its  likeness,   we   shall  grow 
To  the   full  stature  of  the  Lord's  redeemed. 
And  know  how  sweet  the   freedom  from  all   sin, 
How  beautiful   the  ministry  of  love, 
How   blest  and  all-sufficing,  holiness. 


fl 


I 


